


Love is a Battlefield

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Battles and Brothers [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of the Brothers, Nori has negotiated a peace treaty.  Of sorts.  </p><p>One which identifies a new target for our warring factions:</p><p>Who can most effectively initiate a courtship between Thorin Oakenshield, he who would be King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo Baggins, surprisingly-evil-good-natured Hobbit gentleburglar?</p><p>Without, of course, arousing the suspicions of either party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rules of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rules are agreed on. And recorded by Bifur. In his own personal style.
> 
> Nori is annoyed, but it's all off-screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since _Battle of the Brothers_? Have a cheat sheet!  
> 

**Agreed Upon Rules of Engagement for the New Venture**  
 _As Recorded by Bifur_  
 _(Over Nori’s objections, really, I told you a translation would be easy, and Bombur can read it too, with no problem –Bofur)_

1\. The Venture shall be conducted in rounds  
2\. Each round, each team will make an attempt at inducing a romantic mood  
3\. Before the round, each team’s representative will state his team’s plan  
4\. Bets will be taken on which will be successful  
5\. In Round One, Elders go first  
6\. Because they were clearly in the lead on this last thing, even before Bilbo  
7\. Even though the Youngers won’t admit it  
8\. If Team Elder’s plan doesn’t work, go to Younger  
9\. They need better team names  
10\. These are boring  
11\. And also inaccurate, thanks to Bombur and Bofur  
12\. But team Younger-Except-For-Bofur, etc doesn’t flow well  
13\. If the first round ends without romantic entanglement-  
14\. Which it will  
15\. Not sure if they’re both willfully ignorant  
16\. Or honestly that naïve  
17\. If the first round ends without romantic entanglement, bets remain on teams, new round begins  
18\. (15% to Nori for services rendered)  
19\. Youngers will begin Round Two, if needed  
20\. Nori holds the book on bets but  
21\. Oin and Gloin hold the money  
22\. Nori doesn’t like this  
23\. Well then he shouldn’t have _robbed the elves blind, should he_ *  
24\. Well. They are elves.  
25\. They had it coming.  
26\. Can’t do team names based on colors.  
27\. How about animals? What’s an old animal?  
28\. Wolves and cubs?  
29\. Cats and kittens? Would fit princes.  
30\. Oin holds money from Youngers, Gloin holds money from Elders  
31\. Nori records bets  
32\. Maybe we could use new team names based on the target’s names.  
33\. BilboThorin  
34\. OakenshieldBaggins  
35\. ~~BagginsOakenshield~~ too long  
36\. BagginsOakes?  
37\. ~~OakenBags~~ NO  
38\. Baggin ~~s~~ shield?  
39\. ThorinBilbo  
40\. Nori will keep an eye on The Targets and determine when the objective has been achieved  
41\. Most likely to move around unseen  
42\. Because he is a mythological dwarf-lizard as far as I can tell*  
43\. Team will be considered successful and declared the winner when a kiss occurs  
44\. Youngers note must be on the mouth  
45\. Elders concur  
46\. Length of kiss discussed  
47\. Decided it will be left at Nori’s discretion, must be “clearly of romantic and not fraternal nature”  
48\. Some well-deserved comments concerning princes made; present prince undisturbed  
49\. Thoriilbo?  
50\. Thilbo?  
51\. Will consider this matter further  
52\. Have been told all rules agreed to  
53\. Representatives will sign below

_*Opinions held by the writer, not the translator. I’m sure your quick fingers have any of a number of useful applications. –Bofur_

Signed by  
 _Fili_ , son of Dis  
 _Bofur_ , son of Boffin

Witnessed by  
 _Nori_  
 _Bifur_ , son of Glofur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Bifur rather started taking minutes of the meeting, didn't he?
> 
> Bifur is a blessing. (◡‿◡✿)


	2. Lay of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The teams have one day to formulate their first proposals. Romantic "experts" are given more attention than they might want. Team Younger is oddly self-confident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Bifur has officially renamed our teams "Bagginshield" (Elders) and "Thilbo" (Youngers) - though he was very close on Cats and Kittens, due largely to the thought of placing Dwalin on Team Kitten - the narrative will continue to refer to them as "Elders" and "Youngers." This is in part due to the fact that Bifur often does not share his particular headcanon with everyone else.

**Excerpt From Nori's Notes**  
 _Bofur keeps bringing me dinner._  
 _Seems confused. But. Friendly._  
 _Need to explain that did not really join Youngers, and am now neutral_  
 _Feeling lazy though, don't have to get up and there's food_  
 _Youngers seem extremely confident._  
 _Good. Will bet more money on themselves and then fail spectacularly anyway._

The teams had one day to craft their first proposal. 

The Youngers gathered for their first brainstorming session with a sense of optimism.

For once, it appeared that they should have an advantage. Or so Gloin gloated gleefully.

Kili blinked at him, confused. “An advantage? Why?”

“Because we have _experience_ on our side, lad! I am married to a beautiful woman who, of course, I courted. Ori and Dwalin are _currently_ courting,” he gave them a fond look that made Dwalin roll his eyes impressively and Ori gave his arm a sort of calming pat, “we have an entire inside story of Bombur’s courtship through Bofur-”

“By which he means I did most of the work,” Bofur said cheerfully, “while Bombur was busy being shy and planning the renovation of the miners’ quarters.”

“-and then there’s you, laddie, practically planning a wedding.” He clapped his hands together, not noticing the surprised look Kili was blessing him with (and truthfully, the young prince spent so much time looking mildly startled that they all tended to overlook it at this point). “Surely with all this experience to draw on, we are at a _clear_ advantage over a bunch of stuffy old bachelors and Bombur, who can’t pull anything we don’t know about. Oin, Balin, and Dori certainly won’t be a bit of help. They wouldn’t know romance if it slapped them across the face with a war hammer.”

Ori looked doubtful. “I’m just not sure any of our experiences will apply to Thorin and Bilbo,” he said. “They’re a fairly unique situation.”

“Nonsense! Romance isn’t that complicated!” He turned suddenly toward Kili. “How did you and Fili get started?”

Kili, looking slightly alarmed (surprise, surprise) at the sudden attention, answered, “Ah…I was…born?”

“. . . Pardon?” Gloin frowned. 

Kili shrugged. “We didn’t _get together_. We were _always together_. There was never anyone else under consideration.”

Gloin and Ori gave matching, involuntary little sighs over this. Even Bofur looked a bit misty-eyed.

Dwalin, ever the romantic, grumped, “Well then, that’s just no use to us at all, is it?”

\---

On the Elders’ side of the camp, Fili also found himself the uncomfortable center of attention. 

“Well?” Oin demanded. 

“Well . . . what?” the prince asked, looking defensive. 

“You must have ideas!” Oin thought he was whispering, but in fact his voice was booming happily throughout the entire camp. Bombur smiled benignly on him and handed him a little notebook on which he had written, _You’re a bit loud, why not write down your thoughts?_

Oin opened his mouth to argue, but Bombur gazed upon him with such gentle affection that he instead wrote, _You’re engaged, aren’t you?!!!!_ and shoved it under their representative prince’s nose. Balin and Dori shot Bombur an impressed look. Bombur inclined his head in regal acknowledgement.

Fili turned red.

It was fascinating to watch. None of the Elders had seen such a thing on their swaggering prince before. It started at his beard and creeped up to his eyes and then slowly overtook his ears before beginning a journey down his scandalously bare neck. 

Four pairs of eyebrows rose.

“We’re not – I’m not – we’re not _engaged_!”

Three mouths dropped open. Balin’s didn’t – he just looked aggravated in a way that implied he was fully aware of this and so used to disapproving that it had become a way of life. 

“Why not?!” Oin demanded, notebook momentarily forgotten.

“What if . . .” Fili made a sort of . . . terrified face, which gave him the general look of a disturbed tomato. This was a dwarf who smirked in the face of wargs, did naked backflips off elven fountains, and kicked orcs in the goods, finally reduced to an expression of panic. “What if he said _no_?”

Four pairs of staring eyes. Four pairs of raised eyebrows. Four mouths opening and shutting as if searching for something to say in the face of such-such-

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Dori finally breathed, his voice squeaking a bit. “And I’ve lived over a hundred years with _Nori_.”

Fili glared at them all, crossed his arms, and proceeded to sink into an immediate and dark brood that proved he was indeed the nephew of Thorin Oakenshield.

Balin, Oin, Bombur, and Dori exchanged a look which clearly communicated _we will discuss this particular idiocy and its possible implications as to the good sense of our future king at a later date_ , and Balin said, “Well, that’s beside the point at the moment.” He made eye contact with each of his co-conspirators in turn (save Fili, who had chosen a tree across camp to glare broodily at). “What we need here is _subtlety_. If we’re too obvious, they’ll balk.”

\----

“Subtlety,” Dwalin said with the authority of a dwarf who has been friends with another dwarf since they were running around in short pants, “is completely lost on Thorin. You either hit him over the head with it, or he misses the point entirely.” 

“But won’t he know we’re up to something?” Ori asked.

“No. Not unless you walk up to him and say, ‘Prince Thorin, we believe it is in your best interest to throw that Hobbit against a tree and have your way with him.’ And even then he might think ‘have your way’ means something like ‘ _have_ him look at _your_ map and help decide on the best _way_ to Erebor.’ He’ll be confused as to why it has to be against a tree.” 

Bofur laughed. “He can’t be that clueless!”

“Trust me. Thorin is brilliant in battle. He’s good at organizing dwarves, he’s unflinchingly loyal, and he’s the only dwarf I’ll follow to the Halls of our Ancestors without ever stopping to ask why. But he has no idea whatsoever when it comes to,” he waved a meaty hand to indicate _all of this_. “I’ve seen at least a dozen men and every noble daughter he’s ever met flirt with him so hard it should have made rocks fall from the sky, and Thorin didn’t have a _clue_.” Dwalin rolled his eyes huffily. Kili started having a chuckle-fit and muttered something about _Lady Stonebeam – three sisters – strawberry jam_. “No. Subtlety will fail. We have to be direct. Give him something that’ll catch and hold his attention. Something new. Then make a bold strike while he’s trying to figure out why he’s interested.”

Gloin hummed thoughtfully. “It was Bilbo’s sudden burst of ‘Tookishness,’ whatever that is, that caught Thorin’s attention in the first place. What could we do to make him more noticeable than he already is as a Hobbit among Dwarves?”

Ori licked his lips, looked Dwalin over with a slow slide of dark eyes, and said, “I might have an idea.”


	3. A Likely Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The council is called. Bofur is cheerful. Nori is suspicious. Dori is a clear attempt at emotional manipulation. A plan is outlined. Someone is amused.

Nori met with each team’s representative the next day by walking at the back of the line of dwarves, most of whom were muttering about how nice it would be to have ponies right about now. The agenda was to outline the first scenarios, allowing the representatives to return and decide on the first wagers.  
At least, this was meant to be the agenda. He did not trust them to stay on-topic. 

This committee approach was necessary due to the fact that company couldn’t have a camp-wide meeting that pointedly excluded both the party’s illustrious leader and their erstwhile burglar. “Perhaps a bit obvious,” Nori said at the suggestion. Sarcasm practically dripped from his lips. And to think Ori and the Youngers had thought they could convince _Nori_ to join them. He had more sense than the lot of both teams combined. 

Fíli appeared to be in something of a snit, as he was replaced by Dori, much to Nori’s secret consternation. Ruthlessly taking advantage of your brother to make money is one thing, a time-honored tradition, in fact, but doing so to the brother who practically raised you was another. Dori knew things no brother should know. And the Elders were fully aware of that fact. Manipulative arseholes. 

On the Youngers’ side, there was some disagreement concerning who would reveal their first plot. Gloin, seeing himself as a sort of expert in the Art of Romance, put himself forward as a candidate. Dwalin and Kíli supported Ori, who had some training in diplomacy. However, Bofur politely and cheerfully put his foot down and informed everyone that _he_ would handle any council meetings. He was almost to the back of the line, whistling a cheerful tune, before his fellows could mount a proper argument.

Balin and Dwalin, in a rare show of Elder and Younger solidarity (well, rare when they were not in danger of being ripped to shreds by wargs), were duly dispatched to the front of the line to distract Thorin. Bombur and Gloin were assigned to Bilbo. Kíli gave himself the job of bothering his brother by sneaking up behind him and sticking leaves in his hair (that there was no particular need to distract Fíli didn’t dissuade him from this course of action; it did improve their middle prince’s mood, and provided an additional distraction for Thorin when they started darting up and down the line, using their fellow – chuckling – dwarves as shields and barriers).

“Oi, Nori!” Bofur called as he fell into step beside their resident arbiter and spy. Bifur was already in attendance, while Dori was heading resolutely in their direction after saying something to Ori that made the youngest brother Ri make a mildly, almost politely, rude gesture behind his brother’s back. 

Nori slid a suspicious look Bofur’s way. He was always suspicious of Bofur for the terrible sin of _being cheerful and friendly_ , which Bofur personally found hilarious. “Bofur,” he said, in a tone which implied _I am watching you in supernatural ways you cannot fathom and I will comprehend your plot yet._

Bofur grinned back. “Good evening,” he greeted, Hobbit-style, and his tone implied, _Good evening_!

And he patted Nori’s shoulder as Dori fell into step on Nori's other side, just for the narrow-eyed glare it earned.

They were interrupted briefly when Fíli appeared and used Bofur as a wall, twisting the older dwarf around a few times to keep him in place between himself and Kíli. Bofur punched him in a cheerful way, but with a fair bit of muscle behind it (miners weren’t known for being weaklings). The besotted princes ran off again, managing somehow to run side by side while still ogling each other’s backsides.

Bofur and Dori rolled their eyes at each other. Old animosities were forgotten in the wake of that kind of nausea-inducing sweetness, combined with bone-headed idiocy. 

“We should discuss that later,” Bofur said.

“Agreed,” Dori answered. “In the interest of everyone’s sanity.”

Nori eyed them. “That is _not_ the topic at hand.”

Dori gave him a withering look that managed to be fond at the same time. "Which is why," he said crisply, "we used the word _later_."

He really was quite good at this obnoxious elder sibling thing. Bofur felt like he should take notes at the feet of such a master. He generally got along embarrassingly well with his own baby brother.

The council got down to business.

Dori gave an outline of the Elders’ plan first. Bofur immediately saw Bombur’s hand in it – _No imagination,_ he thought, _just stealing ideas from my sister-in-law. Shameless._ Though, of course, Hadda was a lovely and extraordinary woman, far out of Bombur’s league, the lucky sod.

Bofur then revealed the Youngers’ (much more clever and original) plan. 

Bifr grunted. Nori glared agreement. 

“They’re the _same thing_ ,” Nori said.

“They are not!” Dori protested. “Ours is subtle and encourages meaningful conversations. _Their_ s,” he gave Bofur an arch look he had no doubt perfected on two baby brothers (Bofur was impressed), “is more akin to throwing poor Bilbo at wolves and hoping his shirt gets ripped off.”

Hmm. They hadn’t discussed the possibility of getting Bilbo shirtless. Something to consider for the future. He was a soft little thing, but cute. Might appeal to Thorin’s well- developed protective instincts.

Nori ignored this interruption. Clearly a well-honed survival instinct of the middle child. “They’ll both take too much time. You can’t run them consecutively.” Bofur watched with scholarly interest as Nori scowled and tapped his bottom lip. “But he we do them concurrently, we won’t know which one did it.”

“Three days,” Dori shot back with a burst of confidence. “Three days is all we need.”

Bofur snorted delicately. “Three weeks won’t be enough for your hair-brained scheme. We’ll take the three days after.”

They shook on it.

~~~~~~

“What are they doing?” Kíli demanded, a bit breathless, when Bofur rejoined his team in line. Fíli had wandered off to his side, where Oin was plucking flora from his hair with the air of a healer doing fine surgery. 

Fíli’s hair was very popular in camp.

“Stealing ideas from Bombur.” Bofur scratched under his hat. “When Bombur was first courting Hadda, he spent almost a year designing different homes for her – designs to personalize the regular quarters cut into the mountain. We hadn’t come to Thorin’s Halls then, but we were considering it.”

Gloin scowled. “Why would Bombur be designing homes?”

Bofur actually rolled his eyes at this. “Because Bombur is an _architect_. That’s why Thorin _brought_ him. To assist in the restoration plans for Erebor.” He didn’t even bother to meet their stares. “You do know you could just _ask us about our lives_ and we’d be happy to answer your questions. Let me guess – you all decided he was a cook.”

A chorus of cleared throats and muttered affirmations confirmed this.

“Bombur couldn’t cook a _thing_ when he met Hadda. He couldn’t boil water. He couldn’t make tea. Nothing. He was still designing the – fourth? – possibility, and being too shy to show her any of them, when she showed up at our door one day with a pot full of ingredients and informed him she was teaching him to cook. It took a long time and a lot of long conversations over lessons.”

Dwalin cut in, “You said they stole their idea from Bombur. So they’re – what – designing a house for them?”

Bofur shook his head. “No, they’re going to get them to cook together.”

Ori squeaked. Kíli coughed. Gloin hmmed a sort of disapproval that implied _not a bad idea_. Bofur let his thoughts wax poetic over the contents of Bilbo's pantry.

And Dwalin laughed.

 _Threw his head back_ and laughed, his deep chortles making every dwarf ahead of them look surreptitiously over their shoulders to make sure his mirth wasn’t the result of someone losing a minor limb. 

Ori gave him a disapproving look. “You do realize we want them to _fail_ , right? This idea doesn’t seem that bad. It must have worked for Bombur and Hadda.”

Bofur frowned a little. “They had a lot of apparently wonderful conversations while cooking. It could…well. At least they only have three days.”

Dwalin’s eyes were sparkling. It was . . . unsettling. He slung a heavy arm across Ori’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he chortled. “Don’t you worry at all.” His mouth curved into a smile more suited to an especially pleased orc or smug elf than a giant dwarf warrior. “Three days will be _plenty_. And we can just sweep in and pick up all the little pieces.”

The other Youngers immediately pressed for details.

Which Dwalin happily (and quietly) provided.

That night, they laid a fairly hefty bet. On themselves.

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Youngers engaging in entirely too much chortling as bets placed._  
 _Though it is Bofur_  
 _Chortles over everything_  
 _Still. Suspicious._  
 _Do not like being out of the know_  
 _Must stick closer to Youngers; notably Bofur_  
 _…Made Dori nervous, though_  
 _A plus_  
 _Mission: Cooking with Bilbo to commence in the morning_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am quite a fast typist normally, but now my right wrist is in a brace for the first time in my life, and it's slowing me down. :(
> 
> Psst, according to the _Chronicles_ Bombur is, indeed, an architect.


	4. Cooking With Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round One begins. The Elders are sneaky. Bombur sacrifices for the greater good. There is cooking. Oin's life is difficult. Balin's life is hard. Alas.

When the camp rose and began morning ablutions, it was to find Oin making regretful tsking noises as he wrapped Bombur’s hands and wrists in bandages. 

“Oh dear!” Bilbo cried, fluttering over to their side. “What’s happened?” With the institution of the truce (explained to him as an apology from the Youngers for accidentally ruining his dinner), Bilbo was once again kind to everyone. His clear distress at Bombur’s apparent injury almost made a few of the Elders feel bad.

Almost.

But really, this was all for the Greater Good. Or so Oin told himself as Bilbo’s delicate little hands danced over the brace he’d wrapped up on Bombur’s left wrist. He’d done a proper one, even if Bombur didn’t actually need the thing. He wouldn’t have dwarves _or_ hobbits saying Oin, son of Groin, healer of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, couldn’t put on a proper brace!

“Dropped the dinner pot cleaning up yesterday,” Oin grunted. “Twisted his wrists. He’ll be fine in a few days, but he’ll need to keep them still.” He tied off the left bandage with an expert twiddle of his fingers. “You’ll not be doing any cooking for a few days, laddie.” 

Bombur made an exceedingly sad and apologetic face, looking guiltily up at Bilbo. The look in those gentle eyes was heartbreaking (Oin, who had no acting abilities whatsoever beyond looking mildly interested – and irritated - when he couldn’t hear what was going on, was impressed). Bilbo reached out and patted the architect’s massive shoulder in friendly commiseration. Bombur’s mouth moved, but Oin couldn’t make out what he said. He grabbed up his trumpet in time to hear Bilbo’s reply: “Don’t worry yourself, Bombur,” he said stoutly, “we’ll make sure this lot gets fed.” He frowned a bit. “I know a good bit about cooking, but not usually over a campfire. Especially a large one.”

Fili popped up beside them, all early-morning sass and smiles. “Then we’ll get someone to assist you! Of course, we all have duties already assigned except,” he made an elaborate show of looking over the camp that made Oin wince – the boy had _no_ subtlety (which showed that his brother was as blind as Oin was deaf, or they’d be wed and well past this ridiculous nonstop honeymoon stage by now; easier on everyone if they didn’t have to listen to the chuckles and kisses and watch the general ogling; get the boys married and they’d be less affectionate-and-therefore-annoying soon enough) – and suddenly snapped his fingers. “Thorin!”

Bilbo looked uncertain, but not as “I’m About to Pass Out” nervous as he would have been a few weeks ago. “Thorin?”

“He can manage the fire and help haul around the pot for you.” The prince gave one of his _I really am brilliant and ruggedly handsome, aren’t I?_ smirks. “I’m sure he won’t mind. I’ll talk to him for you!” And he bounded off before Bilbo could agree or disagree.

“He’s very…enthusiastic this morning,” Bilbo said, with a little narrowing of those wide hazel eyes.

“Aye,” Oin agreed, “and every other morning.” This was a lie. Kili loved mornings. Fili liked staying up late. Bilbo tilted his head and Oin fancied he was making a thoughtful _hmm_ ing noise.

 _Idiot prince needs to tone it down,_ Oin grumbled internally.

\---

Balin provided calm and collected back-up for Fili’s overconfident swagger. 

“It’s a good idea, Thorin,” the advisor said as Thorin suggested that perhaps _Fili_ might consider being useful. “Fili and Kili were going to hunt while Bombur cooked this morning, and I believe they’re taking Ori along. Everyone is already busy with something-” Balin looked around with a bit of trepidation, worried that there might be a line of sabotaging Youngers lounging around, but to his surprise they were all up and about, going about their usual morning chores with an air of calm resignation for another day on the road. His own brother looked almost _cheerful_ as he situated his own pack, and no biscuits in sight. Which was always frankly a little disturbing.

Thorin must have been in a good mood for the minutes before dawn, because he acquiesced with good humor. “I’ll see to the fire,” he said, and moved to get started, saying a quiet word to their burglar in passing. Bilbo looked up, wished him a good morning with a smile, and went back to poking through Bombur’s pack. Bombur watched the Hobbity-hands in his spices with some trepidation, and had to be stopped from offering suggestions more than once by an intervening Oin.

Balin crossed to Bilbo and smiled benignly down at him. “Thank you for helping with breakfast.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said with his warmest smile. “You know I want to be useful.”

“Just be patient with Thorin. Royal families don’t spend a lot of time teaching cooking.” Balin winked.

“Of course!” Bilbo said. “I’m looking forward to the help.” His expression was sweet and earnest. 

Perfect.

The three youngest members of their Company headed off to do a bit of hunting. Balin didn’t envy his student time with the besotted princes, but Ori seemed so accustomed to their behavior that he barely noticed anymore. The adviser, needing to look busy lest he be assigned cooking duty, located Dori and assisted him in packing up the bedrolls. They worked in comfortable silence for a while before Dori said, “You brother looks entirely too pleased with himself.”

Balin looked up and across camp. Dwalin was fussing over his weapons, as he did every morning, along with his small throwing dagger which Balin knew he intended to hand over to Ori soon. He treated the thing like a wee babe in need of careful tending, though he hadn’t been Dwarf enough to gift it yet. For a full-grown warrior in armor, bracers, and tattoos, his brother was still at his core an awkward brat. 

But at the moment, he was an awkward brat who wasn’t watching his hands as he checked over Grasper. He was an awkward brat gazing across the camp at the central campfire with the look of A Dwarf Who Knows Best.

Balin frowned.

“He knows something,” Dori said.

Balin sighed. “I’m afraid he does.”

“Any clue what it might be?”

Balin shook his head. “No. And I’m not looking forward to finding out.”

Dori considered this. “Brothers,” he said, in that careful, cultured voice of his, “are pains in the ass.”

Balin couldn’t agree more.

\----

It started when Thorin put his foot down about the rosemary.

Later, the Elders would be astonished that this sentence could even exist. What did _Thorin_ know about rosemary? What did Thorin _care_ about rosemary? Thorin, the prince who ate anything you handed to him, up to and including food with a strange smell or color. Thorin, who ate the food in _Rivendell._

Thorin, who said, “You cannot put _rosemary_ in _rabbit stew_.”

“Of course you can,” Bilbo answered placidly. “Rosemary is good with any savory dish, especially meats.”

Thorin reached out and caught the Hobbit’s small wrist as he moved to sprinkle the dried leaves into the pot. Bilbo froze.

So did every Elder in camp.

“Rosemary is better with lamb,” Thorin argued with the fervor of a man who not only knew of what he spoke, but also _cared a great deal about it_. “Cinnamon for rabbit, thyme or parsley.”

Bilbo bristled. It was an almost physical thing. The adorable curls on his head actually seemed to lift away from his ears in indignation. “Rosemary has a woodsy flavor that is _excellent_ for rabbit!”

“If you want it,” Thorin said gravely, as if discussing the months after the battle for Moria, “to taste like a tree, then by all means add it.”

“Rosemary does not taste like _trees_!” Beside Balin, Dori uttered a little gasp when Bilbo _pushed onto his toes_ to get as close to Thorin’s rather pointy nose as he could. “Are you telling me I don’t know how to _season rabbit_?”

“I’m telling you to use thyme and parsley if you don’t want us all to be mourning our tongues for the next three days.”

Bombur winced. Oin adjusted the position of his trumpet with a look of irritable despair.

Bilbo lifted a hand as if to poke Thorin in the chest.

Dori squeaked and grabbed Balin’s arm in a death grip.

Bilbo controlled himself. Barely.

“I am a _Hobbit_ ,” he said, in the tone of one who is Being Incredibly Patient. “We know about cooking. You should trust me.”

Thorin leaned back a step. Balin had to fight the urge to cover his eyes. He _knew_ that stance. It was the stance their leader had used when he first met Bilbo. It was the stance of a prince who, upon making a new acquaintance, didn’t even introduce himself before snarking, _He looks more like a grocer than a burglar_ like a brooding teenager and making an immediate enemy. It was a haughty, arrogant, annoying, looking-down-my-elvish-nose-at-you stance. 

And it never boded well.

“Apparently Hobbits don’t know as much about cooking as they _think_.”

Bilbo went utterly still.

And then. It was _on._

\-----

“Do you know,” Dwalin asked as the subdued and over-stuffed Company set out a good bit later in the morning than usual (they had been glared at so fiercely by a furious king and hobbit that everyone had taken seconds with a sense of self-preservation, even though it had been so well-seasoned with dried parsley, sage, rosemary _and_ thyme that it smelled like the dried concoctions ladies put in their drawers to keep the contents smelling fresh), “why Thorin doesn’t cook?”

Balin sent him a baleful glare. Ahead of them, Thorin was suggesting to a horrified Fili that maybe Hobbits should refocus a bit more on _growing_ food than _preparing_ it. They were apparently excellent gardeners. And grocers.

Dwalin continued cheerfully on without receiving an answer. “Thorin doesn’t cook,” he said, “because he _loves_ to cook. He would _live_ to cook if someone would let him.” 

“Well maybe,” Bilbo commented to Oin, clearly taking advantage of the fact that he could get away with practically shouting while still seeming polite, “dwarves would be better utilized gathering herbs in the forest than actually _cooking_. Being such a _hardy folk_. Then they could bring the food back to Hobbits who know what they're doing.” 

“Yes, Brother,” Balin said through tightly clenched teeth. “I am gathering that our prince knows a bit about cooking.” 

“A bit?” Dwalin asked cheerfully. Ori was at his side, looking politely smug. Balin did not approve of his brother being a bad influence on his apprentice. It was supposed to work the other way round, and with good influence to boot. “Oh, he knows more than a bit. His grandmother taught him. And he is so _utterly insufferable_ about it that he has been _banned from fireside cooking_ for _over sixty years_. He once nearly started a riot on a hunting trip when he told the camp cook that he’d under-seasoned the pheasant, then proceeded to shoot another and cook it. We had to stay in place for five hours while he marinated the thing. Thrain himself told him he couldn’t be trusted with a cook pot and a group of dwarves in a bad mood.” 

“You’ve made your point-” 

“He’s allowed to cook in Erid Luin, of course, but he’s so busy he never has time. I’m sure he misses it. It was nice of you to give him another opportunity to share his joy of cooking with others. Especially Bilbo. Who is, apparently, also a proud and excellent cook.” 

Thorin commented that perhaps Hobbits would do better with more elven dishes. Greens and such. He said _elven_ to rhyme with _scum._

Bilbo wondered aloud if dwarf cooks were trained from birth to use the wrong ingredients and couldn’t be blamed for their lack of understanding, or if it was an individual issue which could be overcome with basic training. 

“Yes. Thank you.” Poison dripped from Balin’s voice. 

A meaty arm, nearly as heavy as Balin’s entire body, thudded down on his shoulders in a friendly way. He staggered briefly under the unexpected weight. “Of _course_ , Brother!” Dwalin said, beaming down at him. “ _Any_ time!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: The number of ways I get around Bombur having any lines while remaining an active character grows increasingly cheater-y. (Though in the extended edition of the first film, in the subtitles, he has one line attributed to him during the troll scene and yells "Move!" in the goblin cavern. It’ll be interesting if he gets lines in the Mirkwood in the EE of Desolation.)
> 
> Note 2: Editing Dwalin’s lines while listening to the dance remix of “Be My Lover” by La Bouche is strangely hilarious.
> 
> Note 3: It was generally predicted that Thorin Can't Cook. Ah, Dwalin is pleased that you made the same assumption his brilliant brother did. Yes.


	5. So This Is What Desperation Looks Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin can communicate without speaking (but Thorin is not good at it). Nori (and Bofur) indulge in dwarf-watching. The Youngers begin showing signs of actual intelligence.

**Excerpt from Nori’s Notes:**  
 _Did not know Hobbits and princes could discuss cooking for an entire day_  
 _Nonstop_  
 _At length_  
 _Without ever actually acknowledging each other’s presence_  
 _Suppose quest is at least educational._  
 _Ori should be pleased._

Thorin’s Company settled in for camp unusually late that night.

This might have been because of their late start, or the fact that their illustrious leader walked a bit slower all day in order to insure that their burglar was within hearing distance (which, Nori noted, did keep Bilbo from having to do the skip-jump-step he had sometimes had to take on during the journey, so maybe that could be seen as almost thoughtful - if Thorin was talking about something other than _seasoning_ and _Hobbits_ and _perhaps better at cooking_ for _rabbits than cooking actual rabbit_?). It could even have been because a light drizzle settled in around noon and droned on for several hours, souring moods and making the grass slippery beneath even sturdy dwarven boots.

But it was none of these things that kept thirteen dwarves and a Hobbit trudging along until nearly nightfall.

It was _desperation._

Oin issued the first delaying tactic. 

“The ground will be wet anyway,” he grunted. “Might as well give it more time to dry out.” The other Elders murmured _Absolutely_ and _Just a few more miles_ and _still enough sun to do a bit of good._

When Thorin showed signs of checking their surroundings for a possible camp-site, Balin chimed in with, “We’re just not covering as much ground as we were when we had the ponies,” with his most effective I Regret This News I Must Impart expression.

And Bombur elbowed a bedraggled and tetchy Dori (Nori put a check next to his mental note concerning his brother and rain) to mutter, “We did get a late start,” with none of his usual grace. His hair was coming unraveled. Poor, poor dear.

Eventually, however, the moon was visible, stars were appearing, and Thorin called them to a halt. He rebuffed arguments about cold, wet grass, possible bugs, and the need to move faster, faster, what about Durin’s Day?! 

The prince looked over at Bombur, whose hands were now wetly bandaged. Nori had overheard serious whispered discussions about Bombur having some form of miraculous recovery, but Bifur had intervened and said that, no, three days was _three days_ and it would be too suspicious anyway (or so Nori gathered from his scattered but growing knowledge of Neo-Khuzdul and the Blue Mountains’ take on _iglishmêk_ ). 

Nori suspected Bifur had enjoyed the look of pained disappointment on his cousin’s face. 

Who knew?

“Get me some firewood,” Thorin ordered Gloin and Oin. “It’s dry enough here you should be able to find something in the trees. Dori, bring the pot.” He glanced over in Bilbo’s direction. “I imagine,” he said, and the words were so _kind_ how could he say them with that _face_ , “that you’re tired after such a long day. I’ll be happy to handle dinner tonight.”

Sweet Valar on their tiptoes, did he honestly think that came out as anything except condescending?

Bilbo pasted on a friendly smile that said _how kind of you, master prince_ while his nose twitched _how dare you, you pompous arse_ and his eyes narrowed into, _do not underestimate me again, you fool._

Nori had never known someone who could wear so many expressions on his face at once.

It was rather mesmerizing.

Thank Mahal Bilbo and Thorin couldn’t have children. Some sort of…curly haired dwarf with the ability to say three things with his face at once like Bilbo, only doing it entirely _wrong_ like Thorin, would be too much for the world to handle.

“Dwarf watching?” came that ~~distractingly~~ annoyingly cheerful voice as Bofur folded his legs and invited himself to sit in Nori’s private nook. Nori sent him a glare, but Bofur just grinned cheekily back and held out his pouch of pipeweed. 

Nori eyed it. Dwarves did not give pipeweed freely at this point in the quest. “Why?”

“Because I’m _friendly,_ which I know fills you with elvish terror, but I’m sure you can overcome it.” Bofur gave the pouch a jiggle. “I’m withdrawing the offer at the count of five. One…two…three…”

Nori snatched it away. “You couldn’t keep it from me if I wanted it,” he muttered morosely.

Bofur grinned. “I _know_ ,” he said, like that was something delightful.

Pipes were duly lit, and both dwarves redirected their attention to the center of camp. Oin and Gloin were having a face-off over the slightly damp wood while Thorin briskly cleaned the pair of pheasants Kili and (to Dwalin’s preening delight) Ori had killed. Bilbo was crouched protectively over the cooking pot, his small hands curled over the rim as he glared across the camp at Thorin’s back. His eyes were _daring_ Thorin to rub herbs on those birds. He looked like a hunter waiting to leap out at a boar and strike it between the eyes with a spear. 

“I’m fairly certain,” Nori said, “that Dori would be willing to cut off their round first if you offered. I think they’re working up to it.” He motioned to where his brother was in whispered conference with Balin. The two of them had somehow become friends. Terrifying.

“Oh, he’s welcome to come begging for concessions,” Bofur answered, stretching out his legs across the damp grass, “but we’ll just tell them no.”

Nori felt his right eyebrow rise. “I’m fairly certain the two of them murdering each other wouldn’t be a boon to your side.”

Bofur’s grin took on a sharp edge Nori had never seen before. “Really? Do you _remember_ our plan?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Then you know that a fierce Hobbit plays right into our hands.”

Nori blinked. Then he felt a slow smile of his own. 

Oh.

So it _did._

“Plus,” Bofur added, “it will frustrate them to no end when we don’t acquiesce. Including your brother.”

Nori slid him a sideways look. “I thought you were the _nice_ one.”

Bofur lifted a mittened first to his shoulder. “I am a _miner_. I dig out _gems_ for a living. We have many _facets._ ”

Nori groaned.

He really needed to get out of this camp and away from these dwarves. It did dreadful things to the mind. He’d almost _laughed_ at that.

\------

As predicted, Dori offered to cut their round short after a strange dinner consisting of something that was half soup and half stew because one chef (Thorin) added fat as a thickening agent and the other (Bilbo, muttering about overcoming the natural flavor) removed it. Two pairs of eyes - one steely blue, one warm hazel – watched as Youngers, Elders, and Neutrals choked it down with approving noises.

“We can’t go on like this,” Dori said.

“Of course we can!” Bofur argued. “Adversity builds character. Puts hair on your chest.” He thumped Dori firmly on the left pectoral, looking mildly disturbed when his fist bounced off solid muscle instead of the softness one would expect from that accent and that hair. 

Nori smirked. Dori had that effect on people.

“We are perfectly willing to concede this round and let you proceed with your plan-”

“ _Oh, no,_ that would be so _utterly unfair_ , we wouldn’t _dream_ of sabotaging you that way.”

Dori gritted his teeth. “We don’t mind.”

“Oh, but we do.” Bofur’s accent, coupled with those braids and that hand spread convincingly over his heart (stem of his pipe poking out between two thick fingers), was irresistibly sincere. “We wouldn’t want any hard feelings when we win.”

“There will be none.”

“Ah, you say that now.” _Saucy_ was the word, Nori decided. “But when we have all your money, that could change.”

Dori growled under his breath. 

Bofur smiled and started backing prudently away. “We’ll start evening of the third day. See if we can’t distract one of our chefs from cooking. How’s that? Call it a compromise.”

Dori wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t argue with Bofur being _nice._

So he gave in.

\-----  
 **Nori’s Notes**  
 _Hobbits use polite conversation to gain access to information that can be used for manipulation_  
 _Bofur uses disarming friendliness to get his way and make others feel good about it_  
………..  
 _If only their talents could be turned to more lucrative pursuits._

\-----

As promised, Kili went forth with Ori on his heels as they set up camp on the evening of the third day. Thorin had made a beeline for the cooking pot, and was using his broad shoulders to full advantage to block access while Bilbo brooded angrily behind him.

“Good evening, Mr. Boggins!” Kili teased, which earned him a small smile.

“Kili,” Bilbo replied, relaxing somewhat. 

Kili swung an arm across their hobbit’s shoulders with care. “You look like you need something to do. Something to help you not only stay alive out here on the road, but also release some pent-up tension I’m feeling in your shoulders.” He gave one shoulder a commiserating squeeze and whispered, “Uncle can be a bit of a trial. Trust me, I know. He takes getting used to.”

Bilbo looked warily at him, but seemed to relax when he glanced at Ori’s earnest and sweet face. “And what is it you suggest I do?” he asked.

Ori beamed at him and nodded to the elven dagger at Bilbo’s hip. “Why, we’d like to teach you to fight, Mr. Baggins!” he said, and flowers practically bloomed behind his ears.

\-----  
 **Nori’s Notes**  
 _Said from beginning Ori most dangerous_  
 _No one ever believes it_  
 _Didn’t even have to talk Hobbit into it_  
 _Just smiled at him_  
 _Youngers finally getting smarter_

_bad news for crusty old dwarves_


	6. Fighting with Bilbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The background of the Younger plan is revealed. There is innuendo. Kili and Ori give Bilbo his first fighting lesson. Fili watches. Someone's nose is in serious danger. An entirely different someone gets bitten.

The plan came from Ori and it was, as Gloin had suggested, drawn from his own experience.

Because the first time Ori had ever seen Dwalin, son of Fundin, was several years earlier when Balin took his apprentice – still several months short of his full coming-of-age – with him to the training grounds. Ori hadn’t done much except stand around decoratively in the background, waiting for Balin to ask Fili some question or other that had seemed vitally important at the time. But he had _watched_ , dark eyes drawn to the center ring where a huge, fierce warrior had been sparring noisily with Kili (Kili insisting that was _great_ , thank you Dwalin, I’ve learned so much, let’s call it a day, and Dwalin _roaring_ as he swung a beat-up practice hammer in another attack).

The sight had been . . . 

Distracting.

So he went to see it again. Several times. With increasingly ridiculous excuses (“I need to sketch the pattern of feet movements in the practice arena” was perhaps the most bizarre one, but everyone somehow bought it. It was his _face_ , he knew it. Nori always said he could get away with anything with that face, and lamented he didn’t take more obvious advantage of it).

He’d been teased by their age-mates about a perceived interest in Kili, which he didn’t really bother to correct. Even if he had been interested in hyperactive, reedy archers – which he wasn’t – he’d caught Fili and Kili wrapped around each other in a back corner the third day of their acquaintance (that being back when they still thought they were being discrete and secret, Mahal bless their ridiculous little hearts). 

So by the time he and Dwalin were introduced to each other at the beginning of the Quest, Ori already had _intentions_ in mind.

And if seeing a fierce, competent dwarf had aroused Ori’s interest, why couldn’t a fierce-ish, somewhat competent Hobbit do the same for Thorin?

Dwalin had hmmed and hawed, but conceded that they idea had merit. As he’d said, get Thorin interested, and then get him to _understand_ why he’s interested.

“After all,” Gloin added, “it was when Bilbo suddenly turned on all of us and started acting like a wee hobbit-shaped _troll_ that Thorin suddenly noticed him. That’s the side we should be aiming to bring out.”

“As long is doesn’t make me end up tied to certain people again,” Kili muttered. He and Bofur exchanged a dark look. 

“You just make sure he gets some hits in,” Gloin ordered, “or it’ll just look like you’re picking on him.”

“Me?!” Kili pointed at his own chest as if someone had just suggested shooting him. “Why me?! Dwalin’s the one who trains fighters!”

“Because I’m twice his size,” Dwalin snapped, “and one of the best fighters in Erid Luin. It’s completely unbelievable that he’d get a hit in on me.”

Kili scowled. “What, and he can hit _me_? I’m not exactly _Fili-sized_ you know-” he lowered his voice when Fili perked and turned at the sound of his name, because one did not simply make implications about Fili’s size when he was, in fact, a better close-combat fighter than one, “-and I’m great with my sword!” Ori uttered a little cough that made Dwalin look at him oddly before his eyes widened a bit and his expression went from mild confusion to outright horror. “That is not what I meant!”

Ori’s gave another delicate little cough. “Of course not.”

Kili eyed him distrustfully and muttered something about _say I’m a bad influence_ before raising his voice and adding, “If you want someone who looks like a Hobbit could whack him a good one, get Ori to do it.” And _maybe_ he smirked a little suggestively when he said it.

“Here now!” Dwalin barked, and a scuffle ensued. 

Predictably enough, Kili lost.

….Badly.

But it did end with a compromise which led to both Kili and Ori crossing the camp together and inviting their Hobbit to stop glaring daggers at Thorin’s back and try his hand at a little close combat training.

\-----

Fili had known the Youngers’ plan ahead of time. 

Both teams had to outline their idea, after all. Otherwise, how could they place the initial bets? 

When he’d first learned that the Youngers’ “brilliant idea” was to teach Bilbo to fight, he’d mostly been amused by it. (Laugh out loud, roll on the ground, bump into a chortling Dori amused, in fact.) Because Bilbo Baggins? With a _sword_? He had that little dagger-cousin of his uncle’s sword, but he could barely _hold_ the thing without looking like he was going to drop it and run away screaming! 

When he saw that the Youngers had sent Kili – _his_ Kili, all impatience and hyperactivity and so much better with the bow – to be the one to do the training, he’d only wished he had some fresh fried chips to snack on while he watched . He’d actually made the suggestion to Bombur, but the camp cook had sadly motioned to the pot, which Thorin was leaning over with a manic gleam in his eye. 

Ah. Right.

Oh well.

It started out normally enough. Kili and Ori led their hobbit to an open area Fili and Balin had been using for a bit of practice just a few minutes earlier. Ori chattered a bit about technique names and approaches and taking advantage of being small and fast, Bilbo listened while simultaneously sending occasional glares in the direction of the cook pot, and Kili bounced around on his toes, being ridiculously adorable for a full-grown dwarf pushing 4’9” (could probably ride a small _horse_ if he wanted and only look minimally outlandish, so annoying) and waving a broadsword around. 

Then they told Bilbo to just come at Kili, to see where he was. And Kili was smirking, eyes shining, a little flushed with excitement at the prospect of fighting someone he could definitely beat (too much sparring with Fili, Thorin, and Dwalin on the road had been a little bruising on Kili’s swordsmanship ego, while his bowman ego had exploded exponentially). But then, one thing immediately became clear:

Bilbo Baggins was _insane_!

He seemed to think that swordplay consisted of _dancing_ and _having a fit_ and _stabbing wildly_ all at once. Even his _curls_ got over-involved, bouncing all over his head and feet as he lurched and jumped and side-stepped and-

Maybe he thought he could paralyze his attackers with confusion? 

“Don’t wave it around like that!” Kili yelped, leaping backward as the tiny sword Gandalf had given their burglar sliced madly through the air. Behind the letter-opener slicing wildly at his brother’s delicate midsection were the most feral Hobbit-eyes Fili had never seen. “You’ll kill someone!”

It suddenly occurred to Fili that Kili did look a good deal like their uncle sometimes.

…The uncle Bilbo was Extremely Unhappy With right now.

“I thought you were _supposed_ to wave it around?” Bilbo cried, dancing a few steps backwards. “It’s what you lot do!”

Kili kept whipping his head around, and his hair was now permanently in his eyes. “Not like that!”

Fili started to jump to his feet, only to have a heavy hand come down on each shoulder and push him back to the ground.

Dori and Oin.

_Traitors.!_

Bilbo scowled. “And the _point_ is to hit things!” Was he – he _was_ – Bilbo did a sort of twirl that was so fast and so soft on his feet that he almost took out a chunk of Kili’s elbow. 

“Not _me_!” Kili squeaked, dodging desperately.

“He’s going to slice Kili in half!” Fili growled, pulling against those hands. He couldn’t let his brother die this way. What would he tell their mother? _You told me to keep an eye on Kili, but I let him be sliced to bits by an over-enthusiastic Hobbit grocer with a letter opener?!_ She’d flay him and use his hide for curtains! Twisting away from Oin was easy, but _Dori._ How could anyone with that _hair_ be so _strong_ , and now he had a hand on Fili’s _other_ shoulder.

Bilbo finally came to a stop, fisting his free hand on his hip and looking politely disgruntled. “You _told_ me to try and hit you!”

“Not with the _pointy end_!” Firelight _glinted_ on the edge of the elven sword, showing how _insanely sharp_ it was. Kili raised both hands in a universal sign of surrender. 

Bilbo scowled. “Then why did you tell me to come at you?!” he demanded and, in typical fashion, waved his hands around in agitation.

One of which held an _extremely sharp dagger_ which came perilously close to Kili’s nose. So close that Kili’s eyes crossed defensively as he scuttled backwards a step.

Dori shamelessly bear-hugged Fili. 

“Let me up!” Fili wiggled against the arms holding him.

“No,” Dori snapped, “look at your uncle.”

Fili’s wild eyes searched out Thorin.

Who was watching.

His hands were twitching.

“Let Thorin bodyslam our Hobbit and see how it goes for their side!” Dori said in a voice that was _not at all proper_ and then Balin _clapped him on the shoulder_ and Fili was going to _bite_ someone if they didn’t stop whatever bonding they were up to and let him up _immediately._

They didn’t.

So Fili sank his teeth in Dori’s arm, as (silently) promised.

Several things happened at once.

Dori howled and let go.

Thorin jerked forward, his expression a strange mix of carefully maintained stoicism and utter bewilderment.

Ori pounced on Bilbo from behind and grabbed his wrist before Bilbo could poke out Kili’s eyeball while lecturing them on saying what they _mean_ why are dwarves _like_ this I don’t _even-_

Kili yelped and jumped back, twisting his ankle and landing on his bum. 

And Oin told Fili, in what he probably thought was a perfectly reasonable whisper but was, in fact, an ear-splitting bellow, “If you’re going to be so overprotective you should just _tell the lad to marry you already!_ ”

And then. Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how adorable Bilbo was slicing away madly at nothing in the fight with the wargs? 
> 
> Yeah. Replace the warg with a Kili.
> 
> Also, this chapter smegging gave me _fits_ , which I'm going to blame on having a bad cold, bad weather, and my newly deceased laptop all hitting at the same time.


	7. Derailed and Off-Topic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The besotted princes stare at each other. Everyone else needs popcorn. Some dwarves are more adept at Durin Glares O' Doom than others. Nori has Had Enough.

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _I think even the crickets stopped chirping._  
 _Impressive._

Everyone froze.

Dori froze with a hand holding his injured arm (no real damage done thanks to thick dwarven coats) and a dangerous snarl on his lips (oddly paired with the wide, surprised eyes). Dwalin was in an odd half-crouch, having apparently decided to finally come to his student’s rescue. Gloin’s mouth hung open, waiting to bite into a strip of dried venison now resting, forgotten, against his bottom lip. Bombur stood posed with one foot lifted sneakily into the air, trying to come up on the cooking pot from behind Thorin’s back while the king was distracted by the practice session. Perched majestically on a rock, Bifur sat with his favorite whittling knife stuck deep in a thick chunk of wood he’d found earlier in the day. Balin’s battered quill fluttered in the slight evening breeze.

Ori had one arm around Bilbo’s waist and the other around his wrist. Bilbo was blinking slowly. Thorin could have been Bilbo’s very hairy twin, though he did eventually raise a hand to his temples and massage the left side gently.

Nori and Bofur, the former in a tree and the latter at its base, both halted with their pipes halfway to their mouths.

Though his face revealed nothing, inside Nori’s head he was positively screaming.  
\-----  
 _Why wasn’t I taking bets on the besotted princes?!_  
 _I’M LOSING MY TOUCH_  
 _I MUST BE DISTRACTED_  
 _I KNOW WHOSE FAULT THIS IS!_  
\------  
Nori moved first, just his head, so he could more effectively glare down at a certain hat.

Then Fili yelped and lost his balance, just catching himself before he landed face-first in the leaves.

“What?” Oin demanded, confused. “What happened?”

Kili, still sprawled in the dirt from his last attempt to halt Bilbo’s suddenly dangerous desire to talk with his hands, narrowed his eyes. His dark brows drew together, and in a moment that open, kittenish face transformed into _heir of Durin_ in a way his brother just couldn’t manage. Nori couldn’t help being a little fascinated by it.

“Tell _whom_ to marry _whom_?” the besotted Younger growled dangerously.

Fili hopped up, dusting himself off with a practiced air that came of being an exceptional fighter for his age who nonetheless spent a fair amount of time being knocked to the dirt by Thorin and Dwalin. “Oh, nothing,” he said nonchalantly, “don’t worry about it-”

“He was talking to _you_. Specifically.”

“It’s Oin! He could have been talking to _anyone_. You never know who he’s trying to chat with because he always shouts.”

**“I do not!”**

Dori slowly lowered a hand to Oin’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Oin glanced up and Dori pressed a finger over his own lips in a shushing motion. Oin huffed, but acquiesced.

“He was clearly speaking to you, Brother.” Kili rose gracefully. He was so active and bouncy at times that it was easy to forget how deadly, fast, and agile he was for a dwarf, his build giving him an advantage in this one area. He stalked a step forward and Nori regretted, not for the first time, that he couldn’t take that young idiot under his wing and send him up pipes. “Who was he _talking_ about?” Kili shot a dark look over his shoulder and back. “Ori? Bilbo?”

Fili’s mouth fell open. “ _Ori_?!”

Ori scowled, clearly wondering why he was a less viable option than Bilbo. He started to say something, but Bilbo shifted and stomped on his foot while simultaneously digging a soft elbow into his side and hissing for silence. So, all Ori managed was a little bark of pained surprise. 

Kili lifted a hand, two fingers extended, and poked his brother hard in the chest. “What have you been telling them?!” he glared at the collected Elders with such vitriol that several of them suddenly found something else to stare at. The sky had, quite abruptly, become extremely fascinating, and Balin murmured something about the weather. “What’s this about getting married?!”

Fili smiled, a stiff little thing free of his usual arrogant swagger and topped off by slightly panicked Durin-blue eyes. “Kili, just calm down-”

Gloin’s snack fell to the forest floor as he leaned forward with the look of a man entranced by a master storyteller.

“-You do _not_ get to get married, Fili! If you even _think_ about getting married-” Fili paled, and it was almost pitiful, even Nori was thinking about intervening on the poor thing’s behalf, who knew Kili could be this cruel? – “it’s going to be to _me_!”

Fili gaped.

Oh, well then. Just as well Nori didn’t get involved. Getting involved was always messy, anyway. Surely they’d figure it out from here.

The collected dwarves – including, to everyone’s later mixed amusement and hopeful speculation, _Thorin_ – followed Gloin’s example and leaned forward a bit. For a moment, no one took a breath.

Fili blinked. His mouth moved.

The moment stretched longer than anticipated.

There was an odd hiccupping sound that was later identified as Ori _laughing_ and slapping his hands over his mouth (necessitating a release of their Hobbit, who thankfully did not once again engage in rabid hobbit behavior). 

Kili’s glare faltered at the lack of response. “I mean. I-if that’s-maybe you don’t want to-” he stuttered. 

Fili shook his head hard, mustache braids whipping almost musically against his cheeks.

Kili’s eyes widened. The angry Durin melted away to be replaced with _cruelly treated puppy._

Gloin heaved a sigh that practically echoed through the Younger’s half of the camp. Nori pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief. He was surrounded. By. Imbeciles. 

“By Mahal’s beard,” Thorin muttered, and the king straightened his shoulders like a man with a mission. “This cannot continue.” He gathered his dignity around him like a cloak and took a step forward-

Only to be interrupted from, perhaps, the least expected quarter, in the shape of a pinecone that arched perfectly through the air to whack their youngest prince in the back of the head.

Kili yelped and jumped, both hands rising to protect his poor head as Nori, their aloof mystery, their impartial observer, snapped, “He’s talking about _you_ , you idiot!” 

Every mouth in camp fell open as every pair of eyes focused on Nori’s tree (save Bofur, who was grinning like a fool and don’t think Nori didn’t notice!). 

“Who else would he be talking about?!” he demanded, completely at the end of his rope. He wasn’t going to make a _dime_ off this! Why hadn’t he taken bets?! So many options! How long would they last? Which would finally get around to asking? What would set it off? _Such an extreme wasted opportunity and here they were dragging it out and mucking it up!_ “Who else does he fuss over and sneak off in the woods with and whisper to all night while _we’re trying to sleep_?! You two are – you’re – you’re like _ducks with head injuries_!” He pitched another pine cone, choosing a nice heavy one. Fili saw it coming, though, and ducked. It glanced across the prince’s right shoulder, though Nori felt a flash of satisfaction when the cone landed with several fair hairs tangled in the scales.

Good.

He would not be the only one suffering from this ridiculous scene.

Nori grabbed his branch and swung down, accidentally-on-purpose nearly nailing Bofur in the process ( _all his annoying chatting and smiles distracting Nori from a goldmine of betting opportunities!_ ). He landed lightly on his feet and said, “I am not going to pretend to know who dropped you on your heads as infants – though I heavily suspect Oin-” Oin, trumpet well in place now, gave a squawk of indignation that overlaid Gloin’s snort of absolute agreement, “but the only dwarves in this company who aren’t fully aware that the two of you should’ve been married three minutes after _you_ ,” he pointed aggressively at Kili, “came of age is the two of you. I _assure_ you that your uncle will give his blessing, if only to _save us all from your sickening doe eyes_ and _in the best interests of this company_ if one of you – I don’t care which, it doesn’t matter, just _one_ of you by Mahal’s dusky tits-”

_“Nori!”_

He did so love horrifying Dori, “ _-ask the other one to marry you and get it done with_!”

Fili and Kili stared at him. And then at each other.

And _neither one said a word_. They just stared at each other in a bizarre mix of _utterly ridiculously besotted_ and _totally stunned_ and _aren’t we shy after practically undressing each other in public on multiple occasions._

Nori threw his hands up in the air. 

A slow, pained breath sounded from the center of camp. Thorin Oakenshield, he who would be King Under the Mountain, stoic lord of Thorin’s Halls, raised his voice and rumbled, “Fili. Ask your brother to marry you.”

“Now?” Fili asked, in a sort of pleading tone that made his voice crack like a dwarfling in his thirties.

Thorin glowered in such a way that it proved Kili really was still just an amateur.

“You can’t make him if he doesn’t want to,” Kili protested, glaring at the ground.

Fili blurted, in a rush of words that denied any possibility of lying, “I want to!”

“You do?”

“ _Of course he does_!” Nori snapped, but not just Nori. Nori, and Oin, and Ori, and Bofur, and, yes, _their burglar_ , all shouted the words in a crash of exasperation (Nori and Oin) and fondness (Ori, Bofur, and Bilbo). 

Kili grinned. “Then yes.”

Fili grinned back, all bright eyes and dimples, sweet Mahal, these were grown dwarves who could one day run an entire kingdom. Their people were quite possibly doomed. “Yes?”

“Definitely yes.”

And then Kili reached out and grabbed his brother and _dipped_ him and it all just became embarrassing for everyone.

But at least Bombur took advantage of the distraction to make a decent meal.

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Finally!_  
 _With that nonsense taken care of_  
 _Can get back to business_  
 _Ridiculously distractible group, this._  
 _Youngers Round One to continue tomorrow evening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, Nori. Nori. The...this really isn't all about the Bagginshield. There's this whole dragon..thing. Remember. Nori?
> 
> ...Nori?
> 
> Hello?
> 
> Next Chapter: With the distracting romantic subplot resolved, we do, indeed, refocus on our clearly PRIMARY mission here of ~~determining which team wins all the gold and long-term bragging rights~~ getting Bilbo and Thorin together for the greater good.


	8. Fighting With Bilbo, Night Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori notes suspicious behavior. Bofur sulks a bit. There is "strategy." Also, winks are exchanged in a saucy manner.

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _What is all this whispering?_  
 _These fools used to be so bad at that_  
 _is MONEY changing hands?!_  
 _Must investigate_

Nori was not speaking to Bofur.

Pointedly.

And obviously.

Which is precisely why Gloin spent a good deal of the next morning having whispered conversations with both Elders and Youngers, along with a (translated) conversation with their official referee. Odds were drawn and money changed hands, tucked away neatly beneath the banker’s beard. Even Gandalf, who had decided to grace them all with his presence for an afternoon, slid Gloin a small pouch. 

In fact, the only two dwarves in the Company who did not have a successful (and tinkling-with-coin) conversation with Gloin that day were Bofur, who was walking and carving a rough practice sword for Bilbo at the same time, and Nori, who kept nonchalantly drifting over and only overhearing strange conversations about “the fox and the badger” or “mint and basil” or “tiger-eye and onyx,” none of which seemed to him to have anything to do with money exchanging hands. 

Nori’s rising frustration only added to his usual stoic grumpiness, and he eventually growled something about “scouting behind” and disappeared for over an hour.

With Nori gone and Bofur busy, it was quietly agreed that, as it concerned “the fox and the badger” aka “mint and basil” aka “tiger-eye and onyx,” all must be allowed to develop naturally. Anyone seen pressing to improve their chances of taking the pot would forfeit their bet.

After all, one mission at a time was sufficient. 

\-------

 **Bifur’s Diary**  
1\. Point of this mission  
2\. Actually to defeat dragon and retake Erebor  
3\. I am the only one who seems to remember this  
4\. Axe in head more useful than assumed?  
5\. Aid to memory?  
6\. Would suggest it for others  
7\. But very itchy

\-------

The next evening Bilbo again agreed to training, and again the Youngers sent forth Kili – but this time under Dwalin’s watchful and experienced eye. Kili had found a decently sized stick to match Bofur's whittling project. Bofur presented the practice sword to Bilbo in hopes of saving all of Kili’s important bits, such as fingers and nose, since he was “the camp’s best hunter and we do all like to eat” and “you’re a mite vicious with that sword.” Bilbo accepted it with flushed embarrassment.

Bofur carefully staged this conversation in front of their leader, and Thorin watched Bilbo take the gift with a twitch of his lips that made the Elders extremely uncomfortable. (“It’s shameful to be so pleased with someone nearly skinning your own nephew,” Dori muttered for Balin’s ear’s only, “even if it did lead to a happy engagement.”)

Dwalin barked orders and Kili followed while Fili sat to the side and looked ridiculously besotted at Kili’s (lack of) teaching ability. He was only stopped from hopping up and helping out by a very firm Balin reminding him of his proper allegiance to the brotherhood of Elders. Kili was no better, tossing his hair and glancing in his brother’s direction, occasionally doing something very close to blushing, which most of the Company would have found impossible to imagine only a day earlier. 

He wasn’t totally useless, though; when he focused he actually offered good advice, and his quickness and speed, at odds with how most dwarves fought, was a good guide for Bilbo. Bilbo picked up the movements quickly, focusing on Kili’s feet and the movements of his arms.

It was not only Fili watching as Kili and Bilbo danced forward and back, Kili and Dwalin commenting on his technique and building up strength in his arms.

Thorin was watching as well.

“This isn’t good,” Balin muttered to Dori and Bombur from under a leafy canopy. The three suspicious Elders watched their illustrious leader closely. Thorin was seated on a convenient log (conveniently dragged into place by Fili, who often made sitting spots magically appear for his uncle), polishing his elven sword and watching the lesson with . . . far too much interest for comfort.

“Maybe he’s just keeping an eye on Kili,” Dori offered. The attempt at unaccustomed optimism fell flat in the wake of his fierce scowl (one designed to strike fear into the hearts of upstart dwarflings and fairly effective on a number of the full-grown variety). “He has a reputation for being hard on them when it comes to training.”

“No, it’s Bilbo.” Balin frowned and tapped his bottom lip. Bombur handed him a soothing cup of tea, freshly brewed by Dori, which he sipped thankfully from the chipped old mug he’d brought along on the trip. “We could . . . run interference.”

“That’s cheating,” Dori said, not exactly in a voice that implied that it was _wrong_ to consider cheating, more just a statement of fact. 

“It’s strategy,” Balin countered, and Bombur nodded agreement, motioning questioningly to their representative prince. Balin glanced over and gave a huff of exasperation. “I don’t know if he’ll be any use to us, but we can try.”

“He likes you best,” Dori said, and shooed his friend off in the direction of Fili.

Balin approached the prince from the side, catching sight of the handsome (and practically simpering, Mahal preserve us all) profile. He fought down another sigh, having flashbacks to the years both boys were in their fifties and kept sighing longingly behind each other's backs. Ridiculous. The both of them. They were lucky he loved them like nephews, or he’d have banged their heads together decades ago just to preserve his own sanity. “Laddie,” he said.

“Hmm?” Fili replied, shifting his weight a bit as Kili showed Bilbo an upward thrust. It was a bit awkward, since Kili generally fought from a distance or, when sparring with dwarves, a greater height, but the idea was there.

“We need your help.”

Fili flashed him a proud smirk. “Kili’s teaching Bilbo to fight,” he said, as if Balin had somehow forgotten.

Balin gritted his teeth and kept his expression and voice carefully pleasant. “Aye, I know. That’s why we’d like your assistance.”

“He’s doing a good job.” The young dwarf practically glowed with pride quite at odds with Kili's modest efforts.

Balin reminded himself that he had learned in his youth, when dealing with Dwalin on a daily basis, that banging his head against a tree was not in any way helpful or therapeutic. “He is,” he agreed, and maybe there was a small hint of pride for his former student as well. “Which is the problem.”

He finally had the young idiot’s attention. “Problem?” Fili asked with a scowl. “What problem?”

“Your uncle can’t seem to tear his eyes away,” Balin pressed, “and that, my lad, is against our best interests.”

Fili glanced over. Thorin had given up the pretext of mucking around with Orcrist, and dedicated his full attention to the lesson taking place in the middle of the campsite. His head tilted occasionally, clearly following Bilbo’s movements. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. I believe it would be in our best interest to give Thorin something else to focus on.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” Fili’s tone was eerily similar to Dori’s as it concerned the morality of cheating. 

“Strategy,” Balin repeated firmly. 

“Oh, well, in that case,” Fili smirked, “I might have some ideas.”

\-------  
Bofur was busy lamenting to Gloin that Nori was refusing to speak (or look) at him – something which Gloin took as a good thing, considering his personal bet, and so he was not as sympathetic as Bofur might have hoped – when the Elders began moving about with sudden purpose. “Oh, and what are they up to?” Bofur asked, pipe stem tapping against his knee.

Gloin frowned and squinted across the smoky fire, where Oin was mucking about with the little pot he used for making poultices. They had unwrapped Bombur’s hands with Bifur’s permission and the architect-turned-camp-cook had set up some squirrels to roast (to the camp’s relief but flashes of clear disappointment from Thorin and Bilbo), but there was enough fire left over for Oin to get some work done as well. “At least I won’t have to watch the princes making eyes at each other,” he’d muttered irritably at his brother, “the sooner they’re wed, the better. You should talk Thorin into doing it on the road.”

Oin truly had no romance in his crotchety old soul.

Bombur rose first, an amiable smile on his face as he walked over to Thorin, said something far too low for them to hear, and then, with his usual strange grace, plopped to sit cross-legged at the king’s feet. He was facing the king, and holding something that looked like some kind of greenery – mint maybe, Gloin was no good with herbs. Thorin looked down at him and responded in kind, leaning over to look at the twig. There was something close to a smile on the king’s face. 

Gloin’s scowl darkened notably.

Bombur’s broad bulk rose directly between Thorin and their hobbit.

“That,” Gloin growled, “is _cheating_!”

Even as he spoke the words, Fili and Balin strode around the fire, Fili waving a friendly hello to Bilbo and throwing a romantically saucy wink at Kili as they passed. Kili faltered and took a whack to the neck that made him stagger a moment and Bilbo apologize profusely while simultaneously blaming Kili for not looking where his neck was going. Bilbo was unimpressed with Kili's return argument that no one can "keep an eye" on his own neck. 

The elder prince and the king’s advisor had shed their heavy outer coats and were armed with their preferred weapons. Fili swung his twin swords in an inappropriately showy fashion that clearly made muscles move across his shoulders and down his arms, and there was _no reason_ to move his hips like that, the brat. Balin offered a polite little bow, Fili returned in kind, and then the two just _assaulted_ each other in a crash of weapons.

Bilbo jumped and nearly took a practice stick to the eye, but Kili had the training to jump back just in time. “Pay attention!” Dwalin yelled as Ori added, “It’s important to be able to focus when there’s fighting around you, Bilbo,” in his most encouraging voice. 

Bilbo nodded with determination and turned back to his (now very distracted) teacher for several minutes. Bofur smirked as Thorin seemed to lose interest in talking about twigs and started watching the fights again – though disappointingly, he split his attention between the two and occasionally grunted advice to Fili, who really should have been doing better against Balin.

“You’re blocking the arena!” Dwalin barked, glaring at his elder brother and student with an expression that would send most dwarves rushing home to hide in their mothers’ skirts.

“Plenty of room for all of us, Brother,” Balin said politely as he spun and blocked swords with his mace from two directions at once. Then he went down on one knee, and Fili leapt over him in a tight tucked roll, popping up right in front of Kili in a swirl of honey braids and a smirk.

“Kili,” Fili said.

“Fili,” Kili answered.

They exchanged a look that made Oin huff and Gloin beam and Dwalin groan.

And that was the end of Bilbo’s lesson for the evening.

\------  
There was no lesson the next day, because they didn’t make camp. 

Instead, they spent the night on the backs of eagles, trying not to wet themselves or do anything else embarrassing. Everyone was successful save Oin, who did briefly pass out. But the others ignored it in a rare show of Company-wide solidarity (Gloin may possibly have filed the information away for later reference). 

At the end of that flight, as dawn broke over the Lonely Mountain, the dwarves received their first sign of real hope that their quest might meet fruition.

A hug.


	9. Intermission: What Price a Hug?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an argument about hugs. A bear makes a decent host. The Youngers set off their second plot.

The silent awe brought on by finally seeing it – Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, their lost home, a splash of beauty and hope on the far horizon – lasted until halfway down the Carrock.

And then the whispers began.

“That was clearly a win for our side,” Dwalin gloated quietly as he grabbed Balin by the waist and all but lifted the smaller dwarf down what were laughingly referred to as “steps.” “I wish I’d known it was coming. I’d have timed it.”

Balin gave him a glare. “You had no control over that!”

“Of course we did,” Gloin argued in his version of a whisper, which gave rise to a chorus of shushes and dwarves looking carefully over their shoulders, where Thorin was bringing up the rear. Their king was moving with extreme care while trying to seem like he wasn’t. Fili and Kili flanked him protectively and Bilbo, to the Youngers’ shared glee and the Elders’ consternation, fluttered beside them, occasionally almost-but-not-quite reaching out to assist the king over a tricky bit of stone. Gandalf was well ahead of the entire Company, oozing down the carrock like it was easy going. “Bilbo was _fighting_. That is because of _us_.”

“If you want to call that fighting,” Oin sniffed, “and not having some sort of fit. Personally, I think he needs a thorough examination. Possibly he took a head injury in the goblin caves.”

“The warg he stabbed between the eyes is likely to call it fighting!” Ori put in, still on a bit of an adrenaline rush from everything, just a tad jumpy. Dwalin shot him an appreciative look and made a comment commending his own warg-whacking abilities that made Dori huff, Oin roll his eyes, and Gloin smile approvingly. “Thank you, Dwalin,” he said, with an appealing blush above his beard (which was in desperate need of a good grooming, but so were they all). 

“And that was obviously, visibly, and intentionally an embrace,” Gloin added. “A lingering one. Thorin clearly didn’t want to let go.”

Oin continued to be unimpressed. “He was probably about to fall over and was holding on so he wouldn’t.” 

Bofur would have none of that. As a hissed round of offended _no_ ’s and _practically a cuddle!_ rose from his fellow Youngers, he argued, “Then he’d’ve leaned on Dwalin. No. _That_ was a hug of a fetchingly romantic nature.” He grinned and adjusted his hat, which he’d almost lost during the whole trees-orcs-eagles incident, then reached over so Bombur could help him scramble gracelessly over a vine-covered boulder. His foot caught and he cursed creatively before slithering down the other side. 

Nori was pointedly not watching this production while seeing the entire thing from the corner of his eye. He twitched very slightly in Bofur’s direction when it appeared that the miner might land on his head, which did not escape the sharp and nosy gazes of the rest of the Company. “It doesn’t matter. The bet is only over when there’s a kiss, and that was no kiss.”

“I’m fairly certain he might have sneaked one in among the curls,” Gloin muttered.

“Most dwarves would,” Ori agreed, and Bombur nodded agreement. Those curls were terribly interesting.

“ _Not good enough_ ,” the impartial observer snapped ruthlessly, obviously still stinging from the loss of his Rivendell souvenirs. “I’m the judge. That was a friendly hug with some hints of lingering, no more.” Bifur grunted. “See? Bifur agrees. You may advance the next round of bets tonight.” 

“It _is_ tonight,” Bofur pointed out, jogging over to Nori’s side and refusing to be properly ignored.

“Fine.” Nori glared at Dori, for no good reason other than his not being Bofur. Dori smirked back as he grabbed Oin before he tipped over the side. “Then you can tell me your next plans now.”

“And the odds will be up for _us,_ ” Gloin said, “since our plan was _effective_ while theirs was,” his mouth twisted into a grin of pure evil, “less so.”

The elders shuddered as a group, and Balin muttered under his breath about _rosemary_ and _cookfire nightmares._

“Fine,” Nori agreed. “Higher odds of success and return for the Youngers. Now tell me your plans. Youngers go first this round.”

\---

Conveniently, everything was decided about five minutes before they took off at a dead run and were subsequently nearly eaten by a bear (there had been some disagreement exactly how to set the odds when figuring in an embrace on the Youngers' side; Gloin and Oin had very opposing views on the mathematical figures; Nori finally put a foot down on Gloin's side).

And then the bear invited them to stay, which was quite friendly of him, though he was really too interested in their Hobbit, who did not take kindly to being hauled about and called a bunny (what was this fascination of passers-by and interloping species with their hobbit?!). 

“Thorin doesn’t look too happy about Beorn cuddling our Hobbit,” Kili noted, pleased. “Look at his eyes, all narrowed, and his nostrils, all flared,” he motioned surreptitiously at the facial features under discussion, as if teaching a class of dwarflings. “He only does that when he’s _really_ annoyed.” Which Kili would know about, from personal history.

The Elders, who had to wait through the Youngers’ next plan, were decidedly _less_ pleased with Thorin’s clear annoyance.

The Youngers were even more thrilled when they saw Beorn’s idyllic back yard, which was filled with large flowers, green grass, and warm sunlight appropriately blocked by shadowing trees. Yes. This would work well.

Plans were laid overnight, in shared baths and through careful grooming and through whispers from piles of blankets, the Youngers chuckling to themselves and double-checking with the lynch pin of their plot: Bofur. If several of them fell asleep in mid-sentence, it could certainly be forgiven after the last few days.

\---

Bofur escorted Bilbo outside, chattering about the flowers and asking Bilbo to tell him all the names. Bilbo was happy to oblige, chuckling at the miner’s enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Dwalin led out a sore but determined Thorin, talking about how they clearly needed to give Fili some proper lessons after his poor performance with Balin two nights earlier. 

(At this point the Youngers were slightly betrayed from within, as their prince had allowed himself to be distracted by the lovely weather and could be found canoodling under a shady fruit tree with Fili, who was meant to be the excuse for bringing Thorin out. Once the others saw them however, gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes and engaging in utterly embarrassing fussing-over-invisible-injuries that quickly degenerated something that could only be described as giggling, no one had the stomach to go over and tell them off. And so they were lost to both teams for the duration of the afternoon.)

“Fili clearly isn’t sparring this afternoon,” Thorin said with something that approached fond exasperation. There was a distinct curve to the right side of his stern mouth. He squinted up with a dwarf’s proper disapproval at the merry sunshine. “We should go back inside-”

“But the weather is so fine!”

Dwalin nearly jumped out of his skin at the cheerful voice, so intent was he on trying madly to come up with some scheme to keep Thorin outdoors without a prince to beat on. He was not terribly long on imagination, and had been in a bit of a panic when the hobbit’s high voice piped through the air. 

Saved by the target himself!

Bilbo smiled sunnily at Thorin, ever-resilient after a good night’s rest and a full meal. “It would do you good to stay out in the fresh air,” he said. And then, to the delight of every Younger and the teeth-gnashing frustration of every Elder, he patted the bright green ground beside him and said, “The grass is comfortable enough, and Bofur was just about to teach me a song.”

It was entirely too good to be true.

And yet it was.

Dwalin heaved a sigh of relief the moment the king’s back was turned.

Thorin lowered himself carefully beside Bilbo with another quirk of his mouth that might, in another dwarf, have been called a smile. 

Dwalin didn’t quite know what to do himself, but Ori came over with a smile, sliding his soft, knit-covered arm through Dwalin’s elbow and leaned against him. Dwalin went very still, but definitely didn’t try to get away. A bushy head settled against his shoulder, unbothered by layers of armor he’d put on even in this peaceful place (and not just because he’d planned to pound on Fili a bit). 

Satisfied with the tranquil setting and surrounding cuddling couples (unbeknownst to Dwalin, Ori sent a wink his way), Bofur adjusted his hat, lifted his chin, and began to sing.


	10. Lover's Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best seats are up a tree. Dwarven love ballads are clearly the BEST love ballads. A certain someone has to alter his notes a bit.

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Weather appears to be on Youngers’ side._  
 _Prefer mountain myself_  
 _Naturally_  
 _But general air of (giant, disturbing) buzzing bees_  
 _Birdsong_  
 _Flowering…things_  
 _Probably appeals to Hobbits_  
 _Enforced serenading about to commence_.

Nori was in a tree, peacefully smoking the last of the pipeweed he had misappropriated from Gandalf (if he smoked less he’d lose less, strong stuff this, easy to steal from a slightly-weeded-out wizard), and considering his life on the road.

He quickly stopped contemplating said life, because he was forced to admit that it was a strange combination of horrible-possibility-of-death and utter-ridiculousness.

Better not to think about it at all.

He liked being in trees, or on the tops of buildings, or the overhangs in mountains, since it afforded a strategic view of the surroundings and, given the general aversion dwarves had to climbing anything that wasn’t a gold-or-iron-studded-mountainside, was an excellent way to avoid pointless conversation.

He was thinking of The One in the Hat here.

Speaking of whom. 

Bofur ran those cheerful/sneaky/more-sly-than-the-others-suspected-those-fools eyes over the surroundings as Thorin lowered himself carefully beside their Hobbit (did he really think no one noticed the fact that he was obviously aching in every muscle?). The miner was looking unbelievably and cheerily smug, and Nori had to admit that, as much as the current plan was clearly concocted by idiots (weren’t they all), the weather was at least on his side.

The sun was shining, birds were singing, bees were buzzing, and the air was filled the scents of flowers and grass that Nori suspected would feel very homey to their Hobbit.

Or, well, homey if the bees in the shire were gigantic possible dwarf-killers and food was served by animals and dwarves were all over the place making romantic eyes at each other.

Bilbo glanced around with a soft chuckle. All right, apparently he could handle the romantic eyes part.

Fíli and Kíli were definitely out for the afternoon, with Fíli basically in his brother’s lap (a position that Nori would have assumed reversed – and sure he thought about it, Nori was not blind and he had been blessed with the excellent imagination necessary of an accomplished thief - but in retrospect he supposed Kíli getting more inches would be a very literal pain in his elder brother’s neck), murmuring and kissing the younger dwarf’s forehead in a way that managed to very comfortably combine “protective big brother” and “definitely going to need a private room soon.” 

Just as well. When one’s entire plan consisted of serenading people with love songs, it was best not to have tone-deaf dwarves involved. 

Dwalin and Ori were more subtle, Ori leaning against Dwalin’s side as Thorin joined Bilbo in the grass. Nori wondered if Dwalin knew how very much Ori looked like a cat with fresh cream whenever he was in contact with Dwalin. Such a sweet, innocent thing and then so immensely satisfied when this giant warrior was putty in his hands. He suspected not. Such was the power of Nori’s baby brother. 

Ori. Such a little shit. Nori couldn’t help feeling a bit proud of him. 

“Good morning,” Bilbo said, and yes, he certainly noticed how Thorin was moving, because there was his disapproving-Hobbit-frown. 

Nori had chosen his tree well for watching the proceedings.

“Mr. Baggins,” Thorin said gravely, now solidly resettled into King of A Distant Mountain mode (hug mode reset, Nori supposed). Nori wondered, not for the first time, if it had escaped Thorin’s notice that Bilbo had a first name. At least “Mr. Baggins” was a step up from “Hobbit” and “Burglar,” and a far cry from “Halfling,” which at this point would get someone’s foot stomped. Stabbing wargs between the eyes rather changed one’s view on whether one should put up with being called half of anything, and Bilbo was looking a bit fierce around the edges now. Nori had his own opinion at who would win in a Hobbit-foot-vs-dwarf-boot battle (the one who would win a battle of wits, and let’s just say his fellow dwarves were unarmed in that one).

Bofur thumped Bilbo’s foot to get his attention. 

Right. Sharing cultures through song. This was why Bofur was Bilbo’s favorite, and why he had been selected by the Youngers as their beginning-serenader. 

“This is a famous love ballad among dwarves.” Bofur grinned and winked, then cast a sly glance around the idyllic little garden. He snorted a bit when his gaze hit the besotted princes. “Seemed appropriate.” Then he looked at Bilbo, gaze flicking momentarily to the dwarf king at Bilbo’s side.

Oh, don’t do that. Bilbo was too bright for-

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Nori was surrounded by idiots.

_'Twas up in a land long famed for gold, where women were far and rare,_  
 _Tellus, the smith, had taken to wife a maiden amazingly fair;_  
 _Tellus, the brawny worker in iron, hairy and heavy of hand,_  
 _Saw her and loved her and bore her away from the mount of a Southern land_

No.

They chose _that_ song?

Nori raised a hand to his forehead.

And thumped it soundly.

\-----

“The Ballad of Tellus” was a great dwarven love story. Which was to say it starred a strong, hairy blacksmith, his beautifully (and equally fierce) bearded lady, some pretty heavy innuendo concerning swords “hard as stone” and “sheaths smooth as mithril links,” and then it suddenly degenerated into violence about halfway through.

All in all, an excellent song, and actually one of Nori’s personal favorites. He had fond memories of being chased off to bed with the other dwarflings, only to circle back and hide somewhere so he could hear all the dirty lyrics (the part about _thick veins of gold_ didn’t make sense to him until he was much older, and then once he was older, it mostly made him wince). And Bofur had a pleasant voice (for all his other faults), so listening to the ballad would have been an enjoyable experience no matter what.

But watching Bilbo’s _face._

That made the experience _priceless._

He started out fine. The romantic bits made him sigh a little. The parts that had Nori and his agemates sent to bed once upon a time made his little eyebrows draw together, then his eyes widen, but he actually laughed (Nori wondered about Hobbit drinking songs). Thorin even shot an amused look his way right about the time Gloin joined them, looking smug.

But then.

 _The lilies dropped from his fingers; devils were choking his breath;_  
 _Rigid with horror, he stiffened; ghastly his face was as death._  
 _Like a dwarf whose faith in Mahal the Maker is met with a prurient jibe,_  
 _He shrank--'twas the wife held fast in the arms of Philo, the scribe._

Any good dwarf knows you have to keep an eye on scribes (save the idiots on this quest, of course, who didn’t realize that Ori was, well, Ori and Bilbo had clearly shown scribish tendencies from the beginning – all those books in his house).

“I thought this was a love song,” their hobbit murmured, his voice wafting up nicely to Nori’s leafy seat.

“It is,” Thorin told him, looking confused. Because what was a dwarvish love song without possessive, all-encompassing, probably-violent behavior?

Crappy.

That’s what it was.

Gloin and Ori started clapping along when Tellus grabbed the sword, and Dwalin appeared to be trying to but he had no rhythm whatsoever (Ori gave him a commiserating pat with one knit-covered hand).

Nori chuckled to himself. His toe might have been tapping along, just a bit. Ah, yes. 

Then Tellus’ wife heated up the brand and it got _really_ interesting. 

Dwarf lasses were, of course, quite capable of defending their own honor.

Five verses into the ensuing three-way battle of blacksmith, scribe, and lass, Ori and Gloin were a bit misty-eyed, Dwalin was staring resolutely at a tree with a bit of brightness in his own eye, the besotted princes were holding hands and gazing at each other at the romance of it all, and Bilbo cleared his throat and started to stand. “This has really been, just lovely, but-”

“But, but, there’s still fifteen verses to go!” Bofur argued, and his eyes shown with good humor and puppylike upset that was far too genuine in appearance to be real.

“ _Fifteen verses?_ ” Bilbo squeaked.

Bofur beamed. Bilbo lowered himself slowly back to the ground.

Well of course fifteen. A good ballad should last a minimum of two full courses at a state dinner. How else did you keep everyone from yelling and throwing food?

Five more verses in, with Philo tied on the floor while the lass poked him with a branding iron for besmirching her honor and Tellus waxed poetic on her fierce beauty and skill with improvised weaponry, Thorin started to get up. Nori silently agreed. This was always the most boring bit, and Bofur had at least three stanzas in there that Nori hadn’t heard before. 

Bilbo’s hand shot out and grabbed the king’s sleeve.

“Don’t you _dare,_ ” he hissed, “leave me here with this _song._ ”

Thorin jumped (it looked like it hurt) and stared at him. “Master _Burglar,_ ” he growled, “he is reciting it for _you_.”

“I _saved your life_ ,” Bilbo snarled back through a tight-lipped smile as Bofur sang blissfully on.

Thorin sat down.

The last notes warbled off at least half an hour after he began (finally, finally), and Bofur beamed benignly over his captive audience.

“That was lovely!” Bilbo said, even as he leapt to his feet. “Very. Visual!”

“Oh,” Bofur said happily, “I have several more, if you have time-”

“Oh, _yes,_ ” Gloin agreed with enthusiasm. “You should sing ‘The Tale of Derana!’” He grinned enthusiastically. “That was performed at my wedding,” he said with a happy sigh. “It’s the perfect length to cover at least three courses of the ceremonial feast, or a main course and dessert.”

“Four with the proper tempo,” Bofur agreed, and Nori wondered if they had both been dropped on their heads as infants. The serenade had clearly failed. Far from cuddling in the sunlight, both Bilbo and Thorin looked horrified at the thought of another.

“Love to,” Bilbo assured him, “but I’m sure that it’s nearly time for luncheon and, ah-” he suddenly snatched Thorin’s sleeve, ignoring the king’s affronted look as he tugged, “and it’s important for Thorin to have plenty of nutrients while he heals!”

“I am _fine_ ,” Thorin argued regally, but Bilbo glared at him.

“Of course if you would like stay for _additional songs of similar length,_ I understand, be my guest-”

Thorin’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

And then he clambered to his feet. 

“Ah, no,” he said, dusting off, and oh, Bofur looked so devastated, even the flaps of his hat were drooping, “you’re quite right, of course, have to eat to keep up our strength. So, ah, sorry. Bofur. Thank you for the. It’s been some time since I heard that song.”

The last was said over his shoulder as Bilbo resolutely pulled him away, looking even tinier than usual as he manhandled he who would be King under the Mountain.

Nori nearly fell out of his tree in his attempt not to laugh out loud. The movement caught Bofur’s eye and the miner glanced up to meet Nori’s eyes. Nori felt his mouth twist into a sharp smile as he prepared to needle him just a bit for this failed plan.

And then Bofur _smirked._

“Well,” he said, and cocked that _mustache_ at Nori. “That went well.”

Nori frowned.

\-----

Bofur spent the next two days singing.

He sang every love song in the history of Durn’s Folk (Ori must have taught them to him), and a good number from his own background in the Blue Mountains.

He accepted requests from his fellow Youngers, took over any group gathering with his mini-concerts, and encouraged Younger sing-alongs.

And every time he opened his mouth, Thorin or Bilbo hastily provided an excuse (generally health-related) and disappeared.

Together.

In a show of solidarity.

**Nori’s Notes (EDIT)**

_Bofur_  
Strengths: endless good humor, mischievous, ~~fair plotter~~ , up for anything, excellent musician and singing voice (, ~~useful distraction?~~ ), everyone likes him despite themselves, _endless mental library of songs, friendship with Bilbo, IS MUCH MORE DEVIOUS THAN HE APPEARS_  
Weaknesses: , ~~is actually a Nice Person, over-cautious about the feelings of others, will forget to lay trap if someone starts a drinking song ,~~ _not sure if applicable or not at this point_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks for this chapter go to mizuki73 (proud and secret third member of Team SP) and sinead4 on tumblr, who sent in the serenading idea. Also to Phoebe_Artemis and cassc13 for helping me with the pov.
> 
> I hope we'll be back to our 2-3 updates a week schedule now! There has been a lot of RL stress keeping me from working on this.
> 
> The stanzas included are from Robert Service's "The Ballad of the Brand," which is a very violent poem, indeed, though I had the wife take on a much more active role.


	11. Interlude: While the King's Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori spies on the Targets. Bofur suggests a lecture on cross-cultural entertainment. Nori isn't sure which is worse (yes he is).

Nori stayed busy over the days of Bofur’s assault on everyone’s collective eardrums, because it was his sworn duty to keep an eye on the targets should anything develop. It should have been a fairly interesting job, given the fact that Thorin and Bilbo were constantly on the run from Bofur’s serenades and therefore spent a great deal of time separate from the others, but sadly it was just-

Boring.

Thorin and Bilbo were _intensely_ boring individuals.

They were more boring than Dori. And Dori. Dori was _very_ boring.

(He and Balin spent all their time lamenting about younger brothers and discussing textiles and patching up clothes and ugh. So dull. So dull. But not, thanks to their shared outbursts of temper and unexpected ability to remove someone’s head in five seconds flat, as boring as Thorin Oakenshield, he who would be King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo Baggins, Gentlehobbit of the Shire.)

Two such boring people should not be allowed to exist.

Instead of falling into each other’s arms, kissing passionately and declaring their undying love for each other (or even just ripping each other’s clothes off for a study in inter-racial relations), they. Talked. 

About _nothing of any interest._

They talked about food (a topic which, though painfully boring to Nori, would occasionally cause the two of them to give each other the silent treatment for upwards of thirty minutes at a time, like recalcitrant dwarflings). They talked about trade with Men. They discussed the creation of maps. They compared wedding traditions (this was the fault of the besotted princes, who kept wandering around holding hands and talking about wedding jewelry; Oin was beginning to look absolutely green around the gills when they were in the room; luckily they were often as not nowhere to be found unless, of course, you have a high perch from which you saw many interesting things that other people did not. Fíli was very flexible. Well, they both were, really, in both a figurative and literal fashion.) 

But that was just when they were _talking,_ which was actually not the majority of the time. Most of the time they sat around in content silences doing _nothing._ Thorin would mess around with that elf sword of his. Bilbo would eat another meal (five on day one, six on day two, back to five on day three, and Nori hated that this was the most exciting thing he had to report in the evenings). Thorin would stretch and check on his wounds. Bilbo would chat with friendly passing goats. Thorin would sit and look contemplative until he fell asleep _sitting up and with his eyes open_ which was just a little terrifying. Bilbo would make a nest to nap openly. Beorn’s bunnies would sometimes join him.

Nori sighed.

Three days of this.

_Three days._

It was more than a dwarf should be expected to take.

He didn’t even have to be particularly sneaky about following them (of course he was, it was a matter of principal), because they never bothered to look up. But of course not. Looking up could possibly be _mildly interesting in some way._

Ho. Hum.

“Hello up there.”

Nori’s eyes rolled with such enthusiasm he was lucky one didn’t escape. Without looking down at what he _knew_ would be the most ridiculous hat in the whole of Arda, he grunted, “Go away. I’m working.”

If watching Thorin gaze into the distance like a particularly sleepy deer (was he awake? Was he asleep? Was he contemplating the universe? Was he thinking about food? Was he dreaming of wild sex with the Hobbit? Who knew?) while Bilbo chuckled and petted the ears of a dog roughly twice the Hobbit’s size could be considered _working_ and not _living a nightmare._

Bofur made a considering noise, as if he might actually do what he was asked (Nori would need to write a letter home about this miracle if it occurred), and then he said, “You know, cultural exchange can be truly fascinating.”

Nori ignored him, in hopes that an ignored Bofur was a hurt and mistreated Bofur who would wander off to complain to his brother or something.

“When my family came to live at Erid Luin, we went through a few towns of Men. Stayed in some inns. Drank some ale.”

“My interest in this,” Nori informed him, “is nonexistent.” (This statement would have been more true in other, less mind-numbing circumstances.)

“They’re not so great with drinking songs, but there is a sort of poem they like. Would you like to hear one?”

“No.” Nori chanced a peek down.

Bofur grinned at him.

His stupid _mustache_ grinned. 

Nori was going to shave that thing off.

Bofur cleared his throat ( _always_ a bad sign, _always_ , and if that idiot started some half-hour love ballad, his life would be forfeit). Nori surreptitiously slid a knife from his boot (only four in that boot, he was travelling light today).

_There was an old woman from Leeds_  
 _Who swallowed a packet of seeds_  
 _In less than an hour,_  
 _her tits were a-flower_  
 _And her arse it was covered with weeds_

Nori sputtered.

“She _what_?” he demanded. “Her tits were _what_?” Was this how Men entertained themselves? They must be blind drunk by that point. Nori’s eyes narrowed. If Men were drunk enough to think that was _funny_ , then they couldn’t possibly be paying attention to their belongings, which were probably lying around the alehouse in haphazard, unprotected piles-

“Oh, sorry, do you prefer gents, then?” Something appeared to sparkle in those eyes (dark hazel, Nori noted for what he pretended was the first time), except eyes did not _really_ sparkle outside of songs and soppy love stories like the ones Gloin had hidden in his pack (hidden, ha! From _Nori_?), so clearly he was imagining things. “I do believe you do,” he said with clear pleasure, though obviously Nori hadn’t indicated any such thing ( _prefer_ was not the proper term; Nori was not one to limit himself in that way; he was a dwarf who embraced variety). “How interesting. How about this version?”

_There once was a man from Leeds,_  
 _who swallowed a packet of seeds,_  
 _within half an hour,_  
 _his dick was a flower,_  
 _and his balls were all covered with weeds._

Nori glared at him, because that was deserving of a knife to the eyeball, but Nori did have standards (a great thief does not have to kill to get away with the goods) _and_ there was a fair chance Thorin would be displeased at murder, even after all the serenades. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed, “and you’re a grump who could use some ridiculous in your life. As we both know.”

Nori felt an eyebrow rising, quite against his will (always a truly impressive sight, in Nori’s case, and those not-laughing-eyes-don’t-really-do-that-clearly-a-trick-of-the-light eyes flickered up to admire the effect). “And you’re volunteering?” he asked.

Bofur grabbed a branch and, with sudden strength and grace, flipped himself neatly up three more until he was sitting just beside and above Nori, close enough he could reach out, should he have a desire to, and touch him. 

Nori twitched the knife at him, just in case.

“I am, at that,” Bofur said, and there was a challenge in that smirk now. 

Nori snorted. 

“You have to admit,” Bofur continued with the sauciest of grins, “you’ve been bored out of your lovely skull lately. You practically fell asleep giving your report last night. Avoiding my suit will be the most fun you’ve had in days.”

 _Lovely?_ Nori thought, and now both eyebrows were involved. “Your idea of a suit involves bad poetry written by Men?”

“Oh, no. Naturally I would provide my own.” Bofur licked his lips and leaned closer.

_A young thirty something from Luin_  
 _First discovered what his bits could be doin’_  
 _With a little spit-shine_  
 _and a good deal of time_  
 _He soon had a technique quite fluid_

Nori didn’t laugh.

He. Hiccuped.

“That was a bad rhyme. Luin, doin’, fluid?” Nori tsked in his most unimpressed manner (the sound was perhaps inherited from Dori). “Weak.”

Bofur grinned. 

Nori said, “It also seems like a poem encouraging me to handle my own problems, without the assistance of anyone, much less mildly tone-deaf wannabe bards who abuse captive audiences.” And if his smile curved into a smirk on the word _handle,_ who was to know except this idiot in the hat? He carefully studied his nails. It was nice to have them clean for once. “Hardly convincing.”

“Dinner!” sing-songed Bilbo’s voice, and he was met with an enthusiastic chorus of support from everyone except Dwalin and Ori who were, Nori could see from his perch, making out behind a hedge, out of Dori’s sight. Dwalin was keeping his hands where Nori could see them, so Nori let him keep them. Magnanimously. 

Bofur leaned forward, counterbalancing himself with ease ( _a miner_ , Nori’s brain chose that moment to remind him), and in a voice that should not have been attractive but somehow was, he purred-

_A strapping great dwarf from the heath_  
 _To his son his great sword did bequeath_  
 _The boy he did stroke it,_  
 _‘Till nearly he broke it_  
 _For the dear lad he lacked any sheath_

And, with perfect balance, one arm holding the limb above Nori’s, one leg out at a strange sort of dancer’s angle, the insulting, badly rhyming, bubble-headed, always-humming idiot _nipped Nori’s nose._

Nori didn’t fall out of the tree.

He just exited it quickly, because he was hungry.

And he wasn’t laughing.

It was a cough. And his stomach. Growling.

He had a better sense of humor than that. 

**Bifur’s Daily Observations**  
1\. Dori and Balin both like to putter  
2\. Puttering as a pair rather cute  
3\. Princes have limited understanding of how sound carries  
4\. Kíli is noisier than Fíli  
5\. Not surprising  
6.. Nori can blush  
7\. Will deny it  
8\. Bofur is still good at flipping out of trees. Taught him well.  
9\. Ori likes standing on tiptoe  
10\. Hope Bilbo does too  
11\. Would probably be awkward to ask  
12\. We should probably go kill a dragon sometime this year  
13\. #12 appears to be minority view  
14\. Dragon could be dead already  
15\. Large corpse to dispose of. Unpleasant. Wonder if a plan for that  
16\. All indicators point to: probably not  
17\. Better not ask me to do it  
18\. Dori is eyeballing my baby cousin; consider warning Bofur  
19\. Though really, nipping noses; done that since dwarfling  
20\. This butterfly is as big as my head 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two limericks are traditional. The last two were written by me and Bofur. I regret nothing, okay? There is no room for shame in a battle among brothers.
> 
> _Probably no update next week due to my being away from home for vacation (my laptop is dearly deceased or I'd work on Battles during the layover for my flight!). But we shall see! It's the Elders' turn, and they have confidence in their plan. ...Again._


	12. In Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elders are optimistic. There are rules about who can insult whom (which every brother should know). Bombur still doesn't say a word.

Nori’s reports provided a source of optimism for the naturally pessimistic elders (buoyed by several days of hot baths and good food, strange host and over-friendly animals notwithstanding). Thus far they’d had a poor showing, which was something of a dampener on the old spirits.

“And we did so well with the pranks,” Oin lamented loudly, “we should never have agreed to this romantic nonsense. Thorin’s probably incapable of falling for anything smaller than a mountain, much less something as tiny as a hobbit.”

“Nonsense,” Balin objected, “just look how well they’re getting along. They’re friends now, to the point that they can share comfortable silences-”

“When no one mentions food,” Oin grumbled. 

Balin just spoke over him. Occasionally, when dealing with Oin, one could get away with pretending that one was also hard of hearing. Oin sometimes forgot it wasn’t a contagious condition. “ _Which means_ they only need a nudge in the right direction. Since we’re next, that puts us in a strong strategic position.” 

It was all tactics, and tactics were a specialty of Balin’s (along with his ability to produce the perfect Genial Facial Expression for any and all situations and looking like he wasn’t in the lead when he was, because Thorin and maps didn’t get along).

Bombur nodded placid agreement.

Dori glanced up from the sleeve he was repairing for Nori and frowned. “We do have one problem.” He glanced around the yard. It was empty at the moment save the four of them and a passing sheep. “Prince Fíli was supposed to help with this, and I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

His three companions exchanged dark looks. Betrayal from within was a serious issue.

“At least we can take some comfort,” Balin said, “in the fact that they’ve lost Kíli as well.”

Dori snorted. “Kíli is significantly less useful than Fíli,” he said. “Especially when combined with Bofur.”

Bombur shot Dori an offended look on Bofur’s behalf, and perhaps a bit on Kíli’s as well.

“This is entirely your brother’s fault,” Oin grumped loudly, pointing his trumpet aggressively in Dori’s direction. “If Nori’d kept his mouth shut, we wouldn’t have lost our youngest member to prolonged canoodling in the bushes.”

Dori sniffed defensively, his hackles rising a bit at the slight against his brother. Only _he_ was allowed to harp on Nori’s endless list of poor life choices. Which Oin, as an Elder himself, knew full well. “Nori only said what we were all thinking, and what _you_ had been complaining about since we set out from Erid Luin. _And_ Nori has done an excellent job keeping an eye on King Thorin and Bilbo without taking sides, and believe you me, not taking sides when Ori is involved is no small feat.” The fact that Ori had lovely brown eyes was a bane of Dori and Nori’s shared existence. Nori had lamented that Ori wasn’t born _with your creepy silver ones_ a number of times in the lad’s teens. Nori was an obnoxious twit, but he was also the only other dwarf who understood the trials and tribulations of raising a painfully adorable dwarfling when you weren’t properly an adult yourself yet. Ori’s baby face was only appropriate for an experienced parent to handle. “I don’t see _Gloin_ doing anything to further the mission along beyond counting his money every five seconds and hiding it in his _beard_ where he thinks we won’t know about it-”

“Be that as it may,” Balin cut in before Dori could start listing Gloin’s faults in revenge, “we need to find Fíli or change our plan.”

“You’re welcome to look for him,” Dori said, “if you want an education in honeymoon behavior.”

Balin winced. He still remembered changing the boys’ nappies. He preferred to continue to think of them as the adorable thirty-somethings they once were, innocently running about holding hands and kissing each other’s noses (Thorin had assured them this was the proper way it was done, and managed to stave off further kissing another decade). “Fine. Who’s going to handle it then?”

They all looked at Bombur.

Bombur looked serenely back at them-

-and inclined his head in gracious agreement.

\-----

Balin and Dori decided later that, all in all, it was actually a fortuitous circumstance that Fíli wasn’t available to fill his part of the plan (he was, in fact, found on the roof of Beorn’s hut, feet hanging off the edge, holding hands with his betrothed and discussing, in extremely serious tones, which love ballad to have performed at their wedding ceremony and how much Bofur would not be allowed to sing it, which Bofur overheard and melodramatically lamented while hanging on an annoyed and slightly red-faced Nori’s arm, until Nori picked up a pair of rocks and threw them, with unerring accuracy, at the princes’ joined fingers. There followed a chase and scuffle which didn’t end as Nori anticipated, because when he swung smugly into a tree Kíli followed right after – Fíli busy sitting on Bofur’s legs – and the two started jumping from tree to tree while Dori yelled at them about acting like adults and being good houseguests and don’t come crying to him when a tree-limb broke and dumped one of them and a dwarf-limb broke as well. In the end nothing was broken, but both were a bit banged up and Kíli was dragged off for a stern lecture by his uncle on proper decorum which was overseen, to the Elders’ delight, by a frowning and cross-armed Bilbo Baggins. Hobbits, it seemed, had very strong opinions of what constituted proper behavior for a guest). 

If Fíli had been the one going for a walk with Bilbo that day, as originally planned, it would have seemed a good deal more suspicious. Fíli, as they had learned, had no skills at being nonchalant. Bombur, on the other hand, had the face of the most innocent and handsome of dwarflings. 

Balin was, of course, the obvious choice to lure Thorin out to their selected location. All he had to do was get out the map and start talking about the Greenwood (which Beorn called, disturbingly enough, the Mirkwood) and Thorin was up and moving on his advisor’s heels. After all, he couldn’t pretend to be in front if he didn’t know where they were going, as Dori pointed out with a sly grin (and well out of their king’s hearing).

The plan was straightforward enough. Dori had located a tributary of the river that ran near Beorn’s house, clearly the source of the clear, fresh water available to all of them since their arrival. Bombur found a little hillock that overlooked it where one could take a Hobbit to show him a small vista view, and Balin had staked out the area he was going to lead Thorin. 

From there, it was all very simple.

Clearly, there are few things in life that connect two dwarves more than being indebted to each other for their lives. One reason Dwalin was still alive despite his clearly placing his hand so low on Ori’s back that it could be seen as _on the upper swell of the buttocks_ was because he and Dori had fought side by side at Khazad-dûm (Bofur had no such protection, but Dori was enjoying Nori’s clear discomfort too much to get seriously overprotective as of yet; besides, the little shit had it coming). 

Applying this line of reasoning to the subject at hand, The Hug, as it was now known, had been a clear result of Bilbo fighting to protect Thorin. No dwarf worth his salt didn’t fall a little in love with someone who saved his life, even if he looked a complete nitwit doing it. 

Imagine if he looked tall, majestic, and powerful doing it?

“He’s a bit of an eyesore to us,” Oin grunted, “but I imagine all those sharp little pointy features of his probably appeal to Hobbits.”

Bombur agreed, Balin was doubtful, Dori said there was no accounting for taste, he supposed, and Fíli was off somewhere reading love poetry (they assumed). 

\----

Bombur invited Bilbo for a walk. 

They rambled in companionable silence by the little river, which was running quite briskly and was deeper in the middle than it looked (without Fíli to send wading, they had resorted to a hurried game of rock-paper-knife, which Oin grumblingly lost after four rounds; the water slapped against his chest in the middle of the stream). They climbed up the little hillock, taking in the view, Bilbo giving a satisfied little sigh. “It reminds me of home,” he said wistfully as Bombur kept a sharp eye on the bend in the river below.

Balin and Thorin meandered into view, talking and walking, Balin’s hands tracing routes in the air. 

Bombur lost his balance, his feet tangling as he tried to regain it.

He bumped into Bilbo, a carefully managed roll of his great hips.

Bilbo yelped and fell backward.

With a splash.


	13. Save the Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elders are missing an important piece of information. There are many splashes. Some bushes are not so nice.

In the quest for Erebor, Bilbo Baggins was a bit of a misfit.

Obviously, he was a Hobbit, while everyone else on the quest was a Dwarf. He was also a scholar, with no combat training, when even Ori had some limited knowledge in how to defend himself. He was notably smaller than the dwarves (a fact which Fíli found secretly delightful, because it was about time someone was shorter than him). He talked with his (delicate little cutesy) hands. He totally lacked a beard, which was just disturbing at first, but the dwarves had adapted. He was incredibly quiet and light on his feet (hence being a burglar). His hair was absolutely _fascinating_ , all fluffy-soft curls, and that was just on his head (his feet were perhaps a bit . . . odd but again, as long as you weren't an elf dwarves could come to accept your physical peculiarities). Each of these differences all of the dwarves were aware of and most attempted to account for them in their day-to-day interactions with their Hobbit.

However, there were only two dwarves who were aware of one Hobbit peculiarity, and both of those dwarves served on Team Younger, one of whom cheated his way on and one of whom was currently off snogging his brother. 

The fact known only to Bofur and Kíli was this: Hobbits, and therefore Bilbo, cannot swim.

And yet the Elders had produced a plan which consisted of tossing Bilbo into a stream of water and sending Thorin in to gallantly fish him out again. Unfortunately, they had not revealed the exact details of this plot in the Laying of the Bets conference, merely saying that they would orchestrate a situation in which Thorin could save someone and appear as the grand and “handsome” hero he was. If they had been more specific, one of the aforementioned Youngers, both of whom were quite fond of Bilbo, would most likely have intervened on the Hobbit’s behalf.

But Bofur and Kíli did not know about the Hobbit-dunking portion of the plan, and so the Elders proceeded with dangerous ignorance.

Despite not knowing this, the Elders had taken natural precautions:  
1\. All Elders, save their besotted prince, were in attendance (Balin with Thorin, Bombur with Bilbo, Oin and Dori just behind a convenient set of fluffy bushes a bit further downstream), meaning even if Thorin failed for some reason to follow through, Bilbo would be safe.  
2\. Even Nori was present, in case any kissing should occur; he was perched in a nearby tree.  
3\. Oin had ascertained that the water would not go over their Hobbit’s head.  
4\. Thorin was an excellent swimmer.

With these safeguards, the Elders believed Plan Save the Hobbit, King in Shining Armor would come off without a hitch. 

They were. Sort of right in this assumption.

However, there were a few small snafus in their otherwise “ingenious” plan.

First, dwarves are not well-versed in plant life. In Erebor, they had grown very little, depending on the Men of Dale and some trade with the Greenwood for most of their plant-y sort of needs. The only plants they could generally recognize by sight were helpful herbs purposefully cultivated in and around the mountain. Because of this, Dori and even Oin, who perhaps might have been expected to know better, were unaware that the white blossoms poking up cheerfully from their leafy hiding place belonged to a plant called giant hogsweed, and that when they pressed forward to see better, pushing down on said plant, sap would rub off on their wrists and necks which would, within a few moments, turn into rashes. And possibly blisters.

They learned this the hard way. 

“Stop banging me with your _elbow_ -”

“I’m just _scratching_ -”

“Scratch more _quietly_ this isn’t a party, it’s a covert bush-”

“As if you do _anything_ quietly-!”

“I can be quiet whenever I - ah you _touched_ me, now _I’m_ itching-”

“Is that a _blister_ , is this plant on _fire_ -?!”

And so, the Elders lost the attention and support of both Dori and Oin approximately two minutes before Bombur and Bilbo walked up the hillock.

Their next mistake was as follows: when Oin made sure that the water wasn’t too deep, he had done so while walking grumpily and carefully along in his bare feet. He didn’t take into account that someone who had been knocked into the water unexpectedly would have flailing feet and arms, so when Bilbo landed, and his little legs went wild, he couldn’t get any purchase. So he immediately went under.

“Bilbo!” Balin cried, his hands rising to his cheeks as Bilbo hit the water. “Thorin, you must save him!”

Thorin glanced at him. “It’s not very deep. I’m sure he’ll be-”

Bilbo’s head broke the surface with a mighty cough.

And disappeared again.

Which led to the final problem with the Elders’ plan: Thorin was an excellent swimmer, true. But he was also injured and wearing every piece of armor he owned. So when Bilbo disappeared, and Thorin leapt in to save him, his heavy boots slid on the slick muck at the bottom of the stream and he went down too, with a tremendous splash and a waving foot that kicked the floundering Bilbo soundly in the hindquarters.

Said kick to the bottom did at least push their hobbit up out of the water a bit, sputtering and spitting as he broke the surface.

“Thorin!” Balin snapped. “Get your feet under you before he drowns!”

“What do you think I’m doing?!” their illustrious king growled back, spitting out water and thrashing majestically. He heaved with his arms, performing a sort of flip until his feet were sinking into the mud. “Stop flailing!” he yelled at their Hobbit.

In direct opposition to this very simple and direct order, Bilbo flailed.

Wildly. 

Thorin grabbed for the nearest piece of Hobbit, which happened to be the seat of his (sopping wet, abused, worn-every-day-for-months, barely holding together) trousers, and heaved.

At this point, the Elders learned that they should have considered the delicate state of Bilbo’s clothes which were, unlike the layers the dwarves wore, not really sufficient for the amount of strain they had been put through. Because as soon as Thorin got a good grip on the pants – and a touch of Hobbit flesh underneath, if his startled expression and Bilbo’s shout of watery indignation were anything to go by – and lifted Bilbo from the stream, the seam ripped, splitting the Hobbit’s trousers neatly in two across the groin. 

Bilbo splashed down again with something like a squeak.

The loss of counterbalance sent Thorin reeling backwards and in a moment – he was underwater too.

Bombur and Balin exchanged a concerned look.

Bombur grabbed his nose and jumped in with a mighty splash, which was overlaid by twin splashes further downstream as Dori and Oin, desperate to fight the itching welts breaking out over their necks and wrists, leapt in the water in search of relief.

Balin walked in more sedately and grabbed Thorin’s shoulder, providing enough leverage to get the king back on his feet. “The Hobbit,” Thorin gasped, already pulling away.

Which was when Bilbo’s flailing body slammed into Dori and Oin, and they all went down in a tangle of arms, legs, and rashes. 

It was about this time that Nori, overcome by a fit of giggles such as he had not experienced since his twentieth birthday, fell out of his tree and landed gracelessly in a bush.

….A fluffy bush.

In the end, Thorin did stomp forward and save their Hobbit, grabbing him about the waist and holding Bilbo against his masculine (very wet, very heavy, chain-covered) chest as he bellowed, in his best Leader of Dwarves Voice, “Stop _kicking_ and put your _feet down_!”

Bilbo’s hands slipped and slid over the mail until he dug them tenaciously into the rich blue cloth and coughed water all over the king’s beard. His hazel eyes were wide and his curls were wet and he looked for all the world like an adorable terrier puppy. 

Balin smiled benignly as Bombur rolled to his feet (Oin and Dori were too busy scrubbing at each other madly and only half paying attention). Yes, now Bilbo would thank Thorin, and Thorin would graciously accept, and-

“Don’t yell at me!” 

Balin blinked. That was not what he had expected their Hobbit to say.

“You kicked me in the face,” Thorin said seriously, his hands firm on the Hobbit’s waist. “Thrice. When all you had to do was put your feet down and stand up. I raised my voice to get your attention.”

Bilbo glared at him, though he didn’t let go. He was hanging on so tight that his knuckles shone white. “I can’t _swim_ ,” he snarled with an intensity far beyond the anger he’d demonstrated during the great dinner battles. 

Thorin stared at him. “You _what_?!” he demanded.

“I can’t _swim_!” Bilbo let go only long enough to curl his hand into a fist and pound it, once, against the king’s chest. Then he grabbed on again. “I can’t swim and you will get me _out of this river this instant_!!”

“It’s only a stream-” Thorin said in a voice that was almost gentle, but Bilbo was having none of it.

“ _This instant I said_!”

And so Thorin did, with the not-at-all-helpful assistance of a horrified Balin and a remorseful Bombur, who bustled the both of them up on shore in a fashion that nearly knocked them all over again. Thorin finally snarled at them to _“Stop helping!”_ which made Bilbo argue, “You can’t yell at them for being nice!” (bless him) and Thorin growl, “I can if we want to live!”

And then they were on dry land.

“Dwarves!” Bilbo snarled, and who knew he could even make that noise? “You can’t-you just-!” his eyes were positively sparking, and he let go with one hand to point an extremely chastising finger in Bombur’s direction. “You don’t watch what you’re doing! I have _never_ in all my _days_ -bebother and confusticate all dwarves! The lot of you!”

Balin opened his mouth to soothe, only to be interrupted by Nori’s yelped, “WHAT IS IN THESE BUSHES?!” which drew Balin’s attention away long enough for Thorin and Bilbo to walk (stomp) away.

“What are you doing on a quest to fight a dragon when you can’t _swim_?” he heard Thorin demand, but the king was sticking close to the Hobbit’s side.

“It’s not a _water_ dragon!” Bilbo snapped, and oh. His pants were very badly torn indeed, which only emphasized the ragged state of his delicate Hobbit underwear. “Why should it even come up!”

“Because it’s a basic skill and you must learn it as soon as possible.”

“Hobbits do not _swim_! Perhaps next time you hire a burglar, you should learn a little something about his people!”

“Hobbits also don’t go on quests, and yet here we are,” Thorin answered, and Balin wanted to burst into applause at his king’s _utterly reasonable and caring_ tone of voice. It was as if Thorin has transformed, for one glorious moment, from a brooding fifty-year-old to a full grown king of the mountain.

A dripping, cranky, red-necked Dori squelched to a stop beside Balin. “. . . I should probably offer to fix his trousers,” he said, rubbing vigorously at his right wrist with his left cuff.

“Probably,” Balin agreed. “He certainly can’t go into the wood like that.”

“But they are walking rather close together.” Dori glanced over at his brother, who was rolling vigorously in the grass and growling under his breath about _plants_ and _dwarves belong in a fekking mountain_. “Language, Nori!” he called, and, well. Nori’s response certainly used language, of a very colorful sort.

Thorin’s hand took Bilbo’s elbow as the pair crested the small hill and disappeared down the other side. Bilbo did not shake it off.

Balin made a pleased noise. 

Perhaps they had gone into this plan missing an important piece of information (rather…vital. Really). But, Balin was a dwarf, and to a dwarf, if everyone came out of the other end of the mine alive and with all their major limbs intact then, well. That was a successful mission. And no one here was missing so much as a finger.

He turned to his (very itchy, splotchy, wet, irritated) friend. “Come along,” he said in a voice rich with sympathy. “Let’s get you inside. I’m sure Beorn knows something about treating, ah . . . bush rash.”

And with that, the Elders-plus-Nori followed their king and Hobbit over the hill and into the house of their (somewhat) friendly (at least to the “bunny”) skinchanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [itsmusomuse](http://itsmusomuse.tumblr.com/) for the savior plot!!
> 
> _A tiny note on Fili's size: I know that according to the WETA map, Fili is actually the same height as Bifur, Bombur, and Ori, because all the actors are 5'7", but something about his design just makes him seem...littler. So. Yes._


	14. Bathtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baths are taken. Emergency replacement spies are dispatched. Bofur gives up all pretenses at subtlety.

“You have to bathe,” Beorn told the two afflicted Elders and one neutral observer, under the amused eyes of the assorted Youngers. “In an oatmeal bath with a gel I can provide for you.”

The Youngers had gathered to watch this exchange, all with great mirth and amusement. Ori, upon seeing _both_ of his big brothers scratching like angry badgers (Dori snapping, “Stop scratching!” to Nori all the while as he dug at his own welts), tried to be respectful of their discomfort but fell so deep into mirth that he started _hiccupping_. His whole body jerked as he buried his face against Dwalin’s shoulder and fought down the urge to _howl._

A recently reappeared Kili patted Ori’s back soothingly (and smirkily) as Fili told Oin, “I think all that rubbing’s making it worse,” and earned a glare of such vitriol that he actually took a large step backward for safety.

“And where have _you_ been?!” Oin hissed, “When your people needed you?!”

Fili’s eyebrows went up, and then his mouth curved into a smirk that- 

Oin growled. “Never mind!”

Kili snickered.

“The bunny is using one of the baths, as I would not have him catch a chill.” Beorn’s eyes narrowed at them all with clear suspicion. Balin smiled back at him, pleasantly, as Bombur tried unsuccessfully to inch around them in the direction of dry clothes. “You would do well to prepare the other, but only cool water; hot will make it worse.” 

All the gathered dwarves noted and discussed – via meaningful looks – the fact that their king was missing along with their Hobbit. Kili, the one voted most likely to blurt words out without thinking them through, asked, “Where’s Thorin?”

Beorn wrinkled his nose almost delicately. “He is hanging his clothes and those of the hobbit to dry.”

He looked mildly perplexed at the general mutter of disappointment, though Fili said, “Just as well, Nori’s not fit to keep an eye on them right now.” And Ori’s hiccups increased in intensity. 

It was Bofur who finally elbowed forward (none too gently if Kili’s squawk was anything to go by), announced, “As a neutral party drawn into this idiocy against his will, Nori’s going first!” and dragged their (reformed) thief down the hallway to the bath chamber. 

“He looked genuinely angry on Nori’s behalf,” Fíli said thoughtfully.

“Even his mustache was indignant,” Kíli agreed, still rubbing Ori’s back rhythmically. “Even Nori can’t last forever against someone who defends his neutrality.” He glanced at his brother. “Right?”

“Neutral my ass,” Oin muttered loudly. “He wouldn’t be in this mess if he hadn’t laughed so hard. Surprised he didn’t break his fool neck.”

Dori glowered at him.

Oin glowered right back.

And Ori hiccupped again.

\-----

“I’m perfectly capable of bathing by myself!”

“Of course you are. I’ll just let you stop scratching long enough to get the water ready. If you need me, I’ll be outside.”

Nori worked up the very best glare he could while scratching his neck and acutely aware that he probably had a rash bursting into riotous color across his nose. 

Bofur cocked a hip and raised his eyebrows. When there was no answer, he started sliding one foot toward the doorway. “Oh fine!” Nori barked. “Just hurry up!” And he dared, _dared_ Bofur to grin at him.

Bofur didn’t.

His expression was one of genuine sympathy as he went to the pump and set to work, filling the tub with tepid water. Though the (utterly irritating, of course) sparkle in his eye never went out, he didn’t laugh or tease, just said, “Strip down and get in, I’ll go get that oatmeal whatnot Beorn’s put together.”

Nori still waited until Bofur was out of the room before he hurriedly ripped his clothes off, the better to scratch at his belly. 

\----

“We need someone to keep an eye on Bilbo and Thorin,” Balin said decisively, “since Nori is unavailable.”

“Can’t do it,” Kíli argued. “No one’s neutral. Can’t be trusted.”

Balin arranged his most honest expression, an impressive one from his arsenal that he brought out only for the direst occasions. “I can watch them. I have experience as a diplomat, when it’s important not to take sides.”

Kíli opened his mouth to agree, only to get an expertly placed fingertip to the ribs from Dwalin for his trouble. Dwalin had to reach around a recovering Ori for this, but as Dwalin was essentially a giant (well . . . when Beorn wasn’t in the room, anyway), this was easily accomplished. Kíli jumped up and back with a yelp. “Absolutely not. I know you, brother. You’ll look me in the face and lie.”

Balin scowled at him, but Dwalin refused to back down at all. 

Bombur, who had been assiduously wringing out his beard for the duration (a small pond forming around his feet in consequence), tilted his head questioningly in the direction of Bifur. 

Bifur, after some consideration, grunted agreement before wandering off in the direction of the line out back where Thorin would most likely be hanging clothes to dry. Bombur squelched along at his heels.

The others accepted this substitution with pleased nods. 

“That’s all well and good,” Gloin said, “but what about the fox and the badger?”

The besotted princes exchanged a look. “Leave that to us,” they said together, and scampered off before their teams could express their many concerns concerning the princes’ attention spans or lack thereof.

“Can’t watch anything with your tongue down your betrothed’s throat,” Oin muttered darkly, because he was wet and cranky and itchy due to the betrayal of their prince, and he did not forgive, and he did not forget.

It was at this point that Bofur wandered into the room, asking after Beorn and the oatmeal bath.

\-----

When Bombur and Bifur reached the line, their king’s clothes (and the worn remains of those belonging to their Hobbit) were snapping merrily in the wind.

But the king was nowhere to be found.

The cousins exchanged a perplexed look, took a time out for Bombur to strip to his underthings and hang his own clothes with Bifur’s assistance, and then they went for a wander to locate their king.

\----

Bofur walked into the bathing room muttering directions to himself. Their host had offered to write them down (in a tone Bofur didn’t care for, thank you very much), but it wasn’t that difficult. Dump in the blue pouch, slather on the yellow pouch.

…Or the other way around.

Well, it all ended up in the tub eventually.

“Finally! Did you go back to Erid Luin for it?!”

Bofur looked up and. Well.

Well. Well. Well.

This was an attractive sight (minus the uncomfortable looking red blotches). Furry chest (though rather less furry than Bofur was used to), strong shoulders, flat stomach, and-

Oh, he’d _cheated!_

Nori was wearing a towel. _In_ the tub.

Quite involuntarily, Bofur tsked. Nori smirked and held out a hand. “Give it to me,” he said and it was a sign of Bofur’s genuine affection that he didn’t take advantage of _that_ line. 

He certainly hoped Nori appreciated his sacrifice. 

Bofur wasn’t ready for complete sacrifice, though. He still stepped forward to sprinkle in the blue packet rather than handing it over, which did look like oatmeal so he supposed he’d remembered correctly. “I’ll help you rub on-”

“No you _won’t._ ” Firmly and with intent.

“Yes I will.” Cheerfully and with sunniness.

Nori glared but Bofur grinned. He could sense an advantage when he had one. He was dressed, and not covered in welts, and not wet (speaking of wet, what a shame Nori’s hair was still up. Dori had fixed in the first morning in Beorn’s home – it had taken the better part of three hours, apparently- and Bofur hadn’t been awake to see it all the way down. A shame that. _Oooh but_ -). “You can’t reach it all,” he said, “there’s some on your back and flowers in your hair.”

Nori’s eyes went wide and one hand flew to his head. “In my _hair_?!” he demanded. 

“Oh yes,” Bofur said seriously (which was made easier by the fact that there _were_ blossoms in Nori’s hair). “I can help you take it down and scrub it out a bit.”

Nori heaved a sigh that shifted his shoulders in a very attractive way. Really. Their thief had no business being so good-looking, clothed or unclothed, and be so clever to boot. Bofur took a moment to congratulate himself on recognizing a good thing. 

“The only reason you want to help me is to feel me up,” Nori said, but he didn’t sound exactly accusatory.

Bofur considered this. “That is _one_ reason,” he agreed because, let’s be fair, he had not been terribly subtle. “But you also look extremely itchy and uncomfortable, and when I heard the language your brother was using – really, _I’ve_ never used some of those words and I’m a _miner_ , it’s practically in my job description to make rude jokes – I figured you were in real distress.”

Nori perked up at this, his eyes narrowed and mouth curling into a smirk. “If you tell me _exactly_ what Dori said, word-for-word, I will let you scrub above the waist.” He held out a wet hand. “Deal?”

“And your hair?”

“I’ll take it under consideration.”

Bofur pulled off one mitt, accepted the hand, and gave it a firm shake. “Deal.”

Nori nodded and reached for the yellow pouch. “You know,” he said, in a perfectly casual voice, “you’re bound to get terribly wet fully dressed like that.”

Bofur laughed.

\-------

Fíli and Kíli had more luck finding their quarry than Bifur and Bomber, since they knew exactly where to look.

The princes made themselves at home under the low window to the second bathroom. Kíli pulled out a small bag of roasted nuts, politely provided by a passing sheep, which they passed between them. 

“If those two don’t get a move on,” Kíli muttered, leaning in close in deference to Nori’s freakishly sharp hearing, “we’re going to reach the Mirkwood and miss the pot.”

Fíli huffed agreement before tossing a nut and catching it with a satisfying _crunch_. “Don’t get me wrong, brother, I love you,” Kíli gave him a pleased look, “but I do occasionally want to do _something_ other than coo over your magnificence.”

Kíli considered being offended about that, but had to admit Fíli had a point. Sitting through every single one of Bofur’s love songs with Fíli almost in his lap, gazing soulfully in each other’s eyes, had ended up being a bit of a trial. His knees had gone to sleep. Repeatedly. Fíli was small but he was pure muscle under all those layers (which Kíli appreciated when his legs weren’t napping without the rest of him). “Do you think they’ll eventually figure out we’re only really horrible about it when Nori’s watching?”

Interference was, after all, firmly against the rules in the “fox and badger” pool.

“Not if we don’t _win_ anything, they won’t.”

The brothers sighed.

Soft voices and the sound of splashing trailed through the window. 

“Ah well,” Fíli continued philosophically, “at least we can take a break for a few minutes. My lips were getting chapped.” And he twisted to peek over the edge of the window.

Where he was met with a pair of curious hazel eyes above slightly damp bare shoulders.

“And what might you lads be talking about?” Bofur asked. 

His voice was very pleasant.

But his eyebrows were not. 

(Really, it was the first time the princes considered that the reputation for fierceness among miners might be rather well-deserved.)

Kíli later described the sound Fíli made as an “ulp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have seen if you read _Stone Essence_ , I accepted a new job which comes with a move, so I'm packing and looking for a place to live with a very small turnaround, in addition to going into a job that's going to be great but a _lot_ of work (so. much. work.) especially the first year. I will update as often as I can! 
> 
> We're close to the end, everyone!


	15. Bofur and Nori Sittin' in a Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori itches. Bofur assists. Spies are caught. A duckling is interrogated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor darlings, in this post teaser age. Have some silliness. <3

**Nori’s Notes:**  
 _BY MAHAL’S TAPDANCING CROTCH MITES_  
 _I HAVE NEVER ITCHED LIKE THIS IN MY LIFE_  
 _WISH DIDN’T HAVE TO STOP FOR CLEAR INSTRUCTIONS_  
 _ALSO NEED AT LEAST TWELVE MORE HANDS AND DOUBLE THE FINGERS_

Nori eyed Bofur with a mix of wary suspicion (completely warranted, he’d bet Dori’s favorite undershirt on it, the one with the soft stitching along the wrists that Nori had put there when he was young and stupid and Dori, the sentimental sap, had dragged on a mission to fight a dragon) and some well-hidden appreciation as the miner took his shirt off. He was quite well-built for someone who spent entirely too much time humming: strong across the shoulders, his chest well-furred and quite curly indeed. 

Not bad, not bad.

Not bad at all for a manipulative, cheerful, humming, nose-biting, hobbit-coddling, toy-making pain in the neck.

He’d probably appreciate the view more and perhaps even do something about it (even if it meant giving in, parts of him were all for it) if his skin wasn’t _trying to burn him alive._

At least he’d be ready for the blasted _dragon_ after this. 

Nori rubbed some of the oatmeally water over his wrists, which had taken the brunt of the fall (along with his poor, lovely face, but he refused to think about that) as Bofur settled beside the tub and opened the other packet.

“Above the waist _only_ ,” Nori said firmly, in a no-nonsense tone he’d borrowed from Dori years earlier. 

Bofur gave him a look of such wide-eyed innocence that it could only be faked. “Of course, so you said.” Then he frowned down at the thick, greenish oil slicked over his fingers.

Which did not _at all_ make Nori’s mind go in interesting directions.

Naturally.

“Minimal pressure,” Nori warned, watching Bofur’s hands with absolutely no interest whatsoever. “Palms, not fingers, stay away from nipples and ears,” well-known erogenous zones on the majority of dwarves, “ad keep your idiot teeth away from my nose or I’ll slice off your braids while you’re sleeping.” His eyes narrowed a bit and he allowed his lips to curve into a dangerous smile. “Actually, no. I don’t need you sleeping to pull that off.”

Bofur heaved an impressive sigh and pressed a palm – no fingers – to the madly itching side of Nori’s neck. “You suck all the fun out of life,” he grumbled (somehow cheerfully).

“No sucking either,” Nori said, but then added, as whatever was in the oil turned cool and-oh, yes, that _was so much better_ , “but that might be negotiable later.”

Bofur’s hand slipped and he nearly fell face-first into the tub.

\----

Bofur was making progress.

Yes.

Definitely.

Excellent progress. 

He was damp, and he’d almost submerged his hat after that sucking comment, but the hat was now safely out of harm’s way and he was Taking Liberties.

He’d sneaked in not one but _two_ ear brushes and Nori had only glared at him like a secretly-pleased cat. And now Nori’s hair was down, and he was picking out flowers with extreme care, and well. That was just a glorious sight wasn’t it? His hair had to be nearly three feet long, slick and dark when wet, and it clung quite nicely in all the right places.

He dug his fingers in at the base of Nori’s neck.

Nori made a low, approving noise.

And Bofur-

Heard the voices of their besotted princes right outside the window.

He growled.

“They’ve been there for about three minutes, nattering about something I can’t quite make out,” Nori said, now only rubbing lazily at his wrist instead of attempting to remove the offending skin with his fingernails. “You should go see what they’re up to.”

So Bofur did. 

\----

“And what might you lads be talking about?”

Fili turned pale and made a fascinating sort of gulping noise. Kili’s eyes, through some inborn protective instinct, went adorably wide.

And then they both started babbling at the same time.

“Nothing, just having a bite to eat!” Kili yelped as Fili said, with the confidence of a king-to-be, “Kili twisted his ankle and we’re letting it rest a minute.”

They exchanged a startled look. 

“After he fell-”

“It’s only twisted, nothing bad so-”

“We thought we’d have something to eat!”

“Since I already had it in my pocket!”

They offered him smiles, Kili’s wide and guileless, Fili’s just this side of a smirk.

Bofur made a thoughtful noise. “Right under the window to the bath.”

“Quite a coincidence, that, who’d think it was such a nice sort of sitting spot, but look, there’s a lovely sort of…flowery…bush thing. Here.” Kíli motioned to the bush in question, which sported two large purple bunches of tiny flowers. “We thought maybe we’d snag a few for Bilbo. Hobbits think flowers have meanings, did you know that? You can write a whole message with them, apparently.”

“Ostensibly they’d be from Uncle, of course,” Fíli continued smoothly, “but then we couldn’t decide which team should have rights to the idea.”

The smiles grew even more innocent (Kíli) and self-satisfied (Fíli). 

Bofur studied them, considering his options. Then he reached suddenly out the window, grabbed Kili by the lapels of his coat, and dragged the squawking prince through the window and into the room (he was significantly lighter than a mining cart, after all). 

(Kili really was _very tall_ , because Bofur almost ran out of floor space before he had Kili all the way through, but his toes hit the ground just as Fili thrust himself through the window, grabbing at Kíli’s ankles with a squawk of indignation.)

Bofur dropped the tall prince so he could go and push the little prince back out onto the grass. “You’re not invited,” he said, “this is officially Younger business.”

He slammed and latched the window over Fili’s heated accusations about Bofur’s lineage.

Really, such language was not appropriate for the heir to a lost kingdom.

\-----  
 **Nori’s Notes:**  
 _It’s impossible to get any privacy in the bath these days._  
 _Remember when I was a dwarfling_  
 _And only had to worry about Dori wandering in_  
 _Insisting on washing behind my ears_  
 _Fussing about hygiene_  
 _Acting like the mama he is_  
 _Lucky I have ears left; never did know his own strength_  
 _Those were the days_  
 _Now feel like naked traveling jester_  
 _Sadly, becoming accustomed to this sort of thing_  
 _Should demand hazard pay_

\-----

Between Bofur’s disapproving eyebrows and Nori’s calm, naked oversight, Kili was a nervous, twitching puppy in moments.

Too. Easy.

The miner and the (reformed) thief exchanged a satisfied look. They worked well together. Nori wondered if perhaps he could convince Bofur to stop mining – a job where Bofur’s innocent face and sparkling eyes certainly couldn’t be used to their full advantage – and take on a more lucrative career. 

There might be . . . perks . . . to having someone else around on a more regular basis.

He would point that out in his persuasive argument, given that Bofur was clearly smitten with him (showed good taste you’d never suspect from the way Bofur dressed).

“What’s this about flowers, then?” Bofur asked, leaning one elbow on the tub as Nori pulled what hair he could around front, inspecting the miner’s work on Evil Itching Flower Removal.

(It did occur to him, in passing, that his brother would probably appreciate having access to the tub and this lovely, lovely oatmeal and oil stuff sooner rather than later.)

(But honestly.)

(He didn’t care.) 

Kili perked up a bit at that, as if he’d been expecting an interrogation of a different sort. “Bilbo says that in the Shire, people pick flowers and give them as love tokens. And each flower has a meaning, so you can put a bunch together,” he held his hands out as if holding something roundish, “and you can say whole sentences.”

Bofur scratched his ear. “What, like ‘you’re so hot you light my forge’?”

Both Kili and Nori stared at him.

Horrified.

“If you ever say that to me,” Nori said, “I’m cutting off even above the waist access.”

Kili learned forward with clear interest at that sentence. Nori’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

What exactly _had_ the ducklings been doing under the window? 

He’d get to the bottom of this when he was a bit less naked.

Bofur, meanwhile, shot Nori a wounded look. “I would never use a line like that on _you_ ,” he said sincerely. “You are worthy of poetry.”

Kíli made a sort of sighing sound that was disturbingly similar to one Gloin might make when faced with romantic nonsense. Nori rolled his eyes, remembering just what kind of poetry Bofur "seduced" with. “Better poetry than dead flowers. You’re sure they weren’t…silk flowers? Or carved from wood?”

Kíli shook his head. “Definitely real flowers. Don't you remember all the gardens in the Shire?”

Nori and Bofur were both unconvinced. “You walk up to someone,” Bofur said carefully, “and you give them dead plants, and those dead plants somehow say something other than, ‘I’m dead’?”

“I think,” the prince offered, “if you sort of pull them up with the roots, the Hobbit in question could put them in a kind of pot, like herbs.”

Nori snorted. “Jewelry makes more sense. Gold and gems. Not plants you have to lug around in a _pot._ ” He shot a look at Bofur to make sure the miner was clear on Nori’s opinion regarding appropriate gifts.

(Miners have close access to precious metals, after all, at least somewhere like Erebor.)

But Bofur was making noises, tracing the shape of a pot along his ribcage. “Ye’d need a sort of sling,” he muttered, “to hold it in place. And I suppose it’d need water, and a way to drain. And we’d have to say the right thing.”

Nori felt mildly offended that thoughts of a pot could be more interesting than his ever-so-subtle suggestion of better courting gifts than dirty poems. But at least it showed that Bofur was capable of focusing on one thing at a time, which had positive implications.

Bofur looked up at Kíli. “Can you tear yourself away from Fíli long enough to talk to Bilbo about what flowers say what?”

Kíli shrugged. “Sure.”

Nori eyed him suspiciously. “You agreed awfully quickly. You two have been practically sewn together since your enforced betrothal.”

Kíli shrugged again. “We can take a break. Besides, we were just trying to help you get in the mood to boff Bofur.” He grinned and attempted to wink (despite being clearly incapable of it). “Since you’re naked and he’s on his way, it must’ve worked.”

The sound Nori made was very close to a growl.

But Bofur just laughed.

\----

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Finally sent young idiot on his way._  
 _Back out the window and into the arms of his brother_  
 _Despair for future of my people._  
 _Luckily am self-centered ass_  
 _So won’t despair for long._

_Also, on unrelated note_  
 _Decided if going to be accused of boffing Bofur_  
 _Might as well go ahead and do it_

\----

_Dori banging on door_  
 _Nattering about monopolizing the bath_  
 _Bofur very…enthusiastic._  
 _Excellent horrified noise from hallway._  
 _Bonus._


	16. Dwarves are for Petting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our targets are located. Money changes hands. Money changes hands again. Bifur is adorable.

Bombur and Bifur finally located Thorin and Bilbo, by returning to where they had begun.

They’d wandered for close to an hour, starting at the clothesline, followed by a meander through the vegetable garden and around the rosebushes, which was briefly interrupted by a polite request for a game of fetch by three of Beorn’s dogs (the least they could do after the dogs apparently helped with dinner). They finished with a search along the tributary, just in case Thorin was already following through on his insistence that Bilbo learn to swim. They had no luck in their careful search (nor did Bifur’s attempts to ask a few sheep for information, complete with carefully mimed Thorin behaviors such as scowling, looking constipated, and crossing his arms while glaring upward, lead to anything but some confusing baaing), so they finally gave up and wandered back to Beorn’s cabin.

Which is where they found their targets, peacefully settled among the baggage. 

Thorin Oakenshield sat straight and serious as always, but the perpetual thundercloud over his head appeared to have lightened somewhat to more of a delicate rain shower (though the appearance of Bombur did cause one eyebrow to twitch in a decidedly irritated manner) as he spoke in quiet tones with their burglar. He looked smaller than usual without his full armor or coat, dressed only in his spare undershirt and trousers.

When he noted Thorin’s feet were bare, his boots propped by the fire, Bombur’s eyes went huge, and he elbowed his cousin very pointedly in the ribcage. 

Bifur, following his line of sight, blushed a bit above his beard as he demurely looked away.

_Scandalous!_

Balin would be horrified!

Bombur couldn’t wait to tell him.

The advisor’s resultant fussy fit would be hugely entertaining.

(This behavior, coupled with his angelic and attractive face, came as a continuous surprise to everyone except Bifur and Bofur, who had long grown immune and learned that Bombur enjoyed smiling serenely over a field of chaos.)

Bilbo Baggins was there as well, all curled up with his tiny pack and smoking away on what was clearly Bombur’s pipe. Since he hadn’t travelled with spare clothes, he was currently dressed in –

Oh, Mahal.

He was dressed in a dark maroon shirt with delicate stitching at the cuffs, clearly purloined from Dori’s pack, and a pair of pants much too large for him and held in at the waist with a belt that looked familiar. Bombur tilted his head and motioned to Ori’s bag questioningly, but Bifur shook his and tapped the side of Fili’s. The hobbit’s little elbow was perched on Nori’s bag as if it had business there, and his great, hairy feet were propped up on Oin’s freshly laundered bedroll.

It was, quite possibly, the most adorable thing either dwarf had witnessed in his entire life, and that included Bombur’s personal bundles of dwarfling joy, may his beloved wife and her favorite cast-iron skillet never know he thought such a thing.

(It was, they decided after extended discussion, the hair that really tipped Bilbo over the edge. Those _curls_ ; no dwarf had curls like that. There were those within the Company who still swore Thorin, in a completely understandable use of opportunity, had nuzzled those curls during The Hug with his conveniently pointed nose. A good, round nose like Dori’s just wouldn’t be able to dig so effectively. Yes, this was definitely the correct pairing for a nose like that.) 

The burglar nodded a greeting, the king did not, and they continued their conversation which appeared to be about the proper wood for smoking freshwater fish. 

Bombur wound his fingers together, pleased.

“Those are my pants,” came a mild objection from the direction of the hallway leading to the bathing rooms, and there were Nori and Bofur, both rather damp and a bit flushed, with Nori’s hair in a loose braid down his back and over his buttocks. Bofur wore his pants and Nori wore Bofur’s shirt, his own petal-covered clothes over his shoulder in anticipation of a good beating out.

(Bifur covered his eyes because NEITHER of them was wearing boots, and his nose was quite pink now; he’d never been in a Man’s brothel but surely, surely it would be a bit like this!)

“Master Baggins had more need of them than you,” Thorin rumbled as Bilbo said, “I knew you wouldn’t mind, Bofur. I would have asked, but you’ve been gone quite a while.” 

His clever eyes flickered between the miner and the thief as his nose twitched curiously above an amused little smile. He shot a glance at Thorin, complete with a knowing eyebrow that made Bombur give a little wiggle of approval.

Thorin’s brows drew together in regal confusion. 

“You took an unnecessarily long time,” he admonished. “I finally told Dori to stop fussing and pair up with Oin, but he’s not pleased with either of you.” 

“We were, ah,” Bofur offered his most charming grin, “occupied.”

Thorin shook his head. “I assumed as much, but even Beorn mentioned the medicine shouldn’t take that long to work.”

Bofur and Nori exchanged a look with Bombur (but not Bifur, as Bifur was staring at the ceiling and muttering about toes and flat arches). Bilbo, by leaning his body to the right a bit, managed to intersect the shared look with something that was very clearly amusement at their oblivious king’s expense.

And then-

-he patted Thorin’s hand.

In the most _there, there, my lamb_ gesture imaginable.

But most astonishing of all was this: Thorin, who snarled at butterflies for brushing against him when he was in a mood and feeling particularly majestic and broody, _allowed it._

He even-

He even _smiled_ a little.

Bombur was 90% certain he saw a flash of actual, visible, viable _teeth._

Bofur and Bombur practically squashed each other in their rush to get out the door in search of their teammates. 

“What about me?!” Nori hissed, when he attempted to follow on Bofur’s heels and got a palm to his chest for his trouble.

“You have to keep an eye on them,” Bofur whispered back, and then he grinned in a way that was not appropriate for company, “and you’re not wearing any pants.”

Nori glanced down at himself (noting that Bofur’s free hand was on his thigh, the cheeky arsehole) and sighed. 

“Fine,” he said, “but you’re making this up to me later.”

The look on Bofur’s face after the firm smack to his ass was worth the aggravation of missing all the fun outside.

\-----

 **Bifur’s Notes**  
1\. NEW HOUSE RULE:  
2\. NO SHOES  
3\. NO PANTS  
4\. NO DINNER  
5\. Will discuss with sheep  
6\. Sure they will agree  
7\. No one wants that while eating

\------

The conference which took place that evening ranged over a variety of topics.

First, Fíli and Kíli, no longer holding hands or cooing at each other, demanded the entire pot for the successful conclusion of the fox and the badger betting pool. “Before the Greenwood,” Fíli said, and, “-skipped straight to the good part,” Kíli added, as they held their hands out.

“We’ve only got your word for it that anything happened!” Gloin argued, resting a protective hand over his beard, where his secret stash of cash that everyone knew about was hidden. 

Fíli, unimpressed with this argument, presented Bofur’s Grinning Face as his evidence (Nori, now pantsed after prodding a smoking Bilbo off his pack, was still trapped inside with Thorin and Bilbo, keeping them under required watch). Kíli added a bit of offended sputtering about _heir of Durin_ and _a dwarf of my word._

Dori, sitting beside Balin, made a distinctive snarling noise.

Ori, curled against Dwalin, tossed Bofur an approving thumbs-up, while simultaneously patting Dwalin’s hand in a way that successfully communicated _I have muscle, should you care to hurt my brother in any way_. Then he smiled sweetly.

Money exchanged hands, Bofur frowned and harrumphed a bit but mostly winked and grinned and looked pleased with life, and Bifur introduced the next item on the agenda (sketched in the dirt in his beautiful neo-Khuzdul).

“He’s right,” Oin sighed, “we’re running out of time. We’ll be to the mountain soon.”

Bifur sketched a fierce little dragon in the dirt next to his list.

No one noticed.

“We’ve time left on ours,” Balin said, only to receive a fierce glare and an extended lecture from Kíli and Bofur, founding members of the Hobbit Appreciation Society, about _hare-brained schemes_ and _placing Bilbo in danger_ and _clearly not in the spirit of the competition._

“He’s fine,” Balin insisted, but Bifur, after a moment’s consideration, declared that while the Elders did not completely forfeit the round, they did lose two days due to what Bofur translated as “gross idiocy.”

This led to some outraged squawks and arguments on the part of the Elders, affording the Youngers an opportunity to gather under a leafy tree for a whispered conference.

“I told you Thorin was a lost cause,” Dwalin said with impatient smugness after Bofur hurriedly reenacted their king’s utter cluelessness and Bilbo’s resultant hand-patting. 

“No he’s not,” Kíli, his pockets jingling merrily, argued loyally. “Uncle’s not hopeless. He’s just . . . ah,” he obviously fished for a word, “focused. We just need to focus on Bilbo, so Bilbo can explain it to him.”

“And how do we do that?” Ori demanded. “Bilbo’s no better if he hasn’t figured it out by now. Dori said they were practically snuggling in the river.”

“We think romance,” Bofur said firmly. “Bilbo’s already fond of Thorin, Mahal only knows why, but that hand pat . . . if you’d been there . . .” he shook his head. “You get Bilbo thinking romantic thoughts and he’ll take care of the rest.”

Gloin frowned. “He’s so little and delicate . . . surely he wouldn’t initiate anything with a king.”

Bofur snorted as Kíli’s hand rose protectively to the side of his head. 

“Ah,” Gloin said. “Right.” And he inched a bit away from Dwalin, as if doing so could stave off the memory.

“So how do we get Bilbo thinking about romance?” Ori asked, and Dwalin gazed down at him with such grumpy fondness that everyone was glad Oin wasn’t close by to bitch about it. 

“For once, Kíli has proven useful,” Balin said, ignoring the glare of indignation this earned. “We’re going to use flowers.

\------ 

Late that night, while the Company slept peacefully, Fíli and Kíli found themselves rudely awakened by the arrival of a grown dwarf on each stomach and a hand over each mouth.

“We’ll be taking a cut of your winnings,” Bofur whispered cheerfully into Fíli’s face.

Nori’s voice was as dangerous as Bofur’s had been cheery, “Or we’ll tell them about how you broke the rules.”

The princes fussed a bit, muffled against the palms (Kíli went for a full lick but Nori was entirely unimpressed and pinched his stomach in swift retaliation), but in the end, Bofur and Nori received 50% of the take and Bofur hopped up with a cheery, “Lovely doing business with you two gentledwarves,” as he offered Nori a hand-up. He then followed the thief into the night (without quite pulling his hand away) as Nori explained where intelligent dwarves hide money on their persons.


	17. Flowers, Flowers Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves go flower-picking. Gloin takes charge. Ori works on handicrafts.

The Youngers met in council after a filling breakfast the next morning, joined by a somewhat pouting but fully-rededicated Kíli. This sudden return to proper support of his side eared an ominously suspicious grumble from Gloin and Oin, still smarting over their lightened purses, but their representative prince was too busy yawning to notice. He Fíli had disappeared from the shared sleeping space in the middle of the night, ostensibly to “sleep under the stars and away from the orchestra of snores,” and clearly had not gotten the required seven hours.

It had been announced over the tomatoes and milk that Thorin was healed enough to travel – without actually referencing he’d been injured in the first place, which was really, everyone agreed, rather impressive, and very dwarf appropriate – so they would leave Beorn’s the following dawn. In terms of the mission, this was upsetting news. Beorn’s place, with its flowers and fluffy animals and whatnot, was perfect for romancing a Hobbit, if somewhat soft and sunshiny for the sensibilities of your average dwarf. The Mirkwood, on the other hand, would be full of _elves_ , the least romantic, least attractive, most effectively boner-killing species on Arda. 

“We’d do well to take care of this business now,” Gloin said as they gathered under a leafy bower, a healthy distance away from the various elders, targets, and neutrals cluttering up Beorn’s garden. “Woods are no good for romance.”

The other nodded agreement; all that dappled light and dirt and little forest creatures did nothing for the passionate spirit. A decent dwarf was too distracted by the urge to either kill and cook something or find a proper route underground, where everything smelled appropriately of stone and smoke rather than rotting tree matter and wildlife scat, to focus on courting. 

Ugh.

_Forests._

“Well, there’s plenty of flowers here,” Kíli said, always one to look on the bright side. “Find some pretty ones and put them together.” 

Bofur frowned. “I haven’t had time to make the pot,” he argued, “much less some way to carry it.”

“I can sew up a leather pouch,” Ori volunteered. “We’ve some scraps I could use.” At the doubtful looks he said, “It wouldn’t last _forever_ , but it’s not like he can haul a pot around all the way to Erebor!” 

Dwalin, meanwhile, was making a face that clearly indicated he wasn’t buying any of this flower nonsense. “Why would the lad want plants he can’t _eat_?” he demanded. 

“Actually,” Bofur amended, “he says some you can eat, flowers and such. Just not all of them, so I don’t suggest it. Besides, they might start fighting about how to cook them.” He hopped to his feet, dusting off his bum as he did so. This was followed by a slow stretch of such luxuriousness, and with such an obvious and cheeky grin, that Gloin (who had bet on “in the Mirkwood” in the fox-and-badger pool on the assumption one of them would crack from all that greenery and elvishness and need solid dwarf muscle under his hands) rolled his eyes and snorted noisily. “But these are for looking nice, like gems. And they have meanings, like gems. So we want to say something nice.” 

Gloin leaned forward, suddenly interested. “So this is similar to giving a necklace?” he asked, referencing the courting gifts often given at a betrothal: a necklace of shaped and polished stone with meanings particular to that couple. The ones he and his lovely wife had exchanged were, of course, excellently executed with sweet intent. “I can help with it, then.” He spoke with the assured authority of a dwarf who had accepted an outstanding proposal of his own, which was more than any other Younger could say, Kíli’s betrothal being, as it was, a bit of a mess. 

He really must sit down with the lads and discuss proper courting etiquette. No one wanted to tell his grandchildren he’d been ordered to get engaged by his uncle. 

He made a mental note to do so at the first available opportunity.

“Kíli’s in charge,” Bofur argued. “He’s the one who knows what the flowers mean.”

The older Youngers turned as a group to their ultimate Younger, who gazed back at them with startled eyes.

“I don’t know what flowers mean,” he said, brows drawing slowly together. “I only know they mean _something_.”

There was a collective groan so loud that Bifur suddenly loomed over them, eyes darting in search of danger. Bofur patted his shoulder and said, “No problems, cousin, just Kíli.”

“Ah,” Bifur said, and grunted immediate understanding after this briefest of explanations.

Kíli was not amused, and said as much. Vociferously. 

“It’s fine,” Gloin assured his fellows, getting to his feet with less of a hop than Bofur, but certainly more oomph than their elderly counterparts could manage, so there. “I’ve made a promise necklace. I’m sure the idea’s the same.”

“How can it be remotely the same-” Dwalin growled, but Gloin spoke determinedly over him. 

“Gems have colors and flowers have colors. If we find some flowers and figure out what gem it looks like, I’m sure we can do a decent translation.”

Ori perked up. “Mahal’s wife is Yavanna. I’m sure they discussed it.”

The other looked at him, then at each other. Dwalin caught each set of eyes with a fierce glare until Kíli said, “Well, ah, I think it’s the best we’ve got, so let’s try it. Dwalin and Ori can make the leather satchel, Bofur and I can dig, and Gloin’s in charge of selecting flowers.” 

Gloin took his time, much to his diggers’ rising impatience. “You don’t _rus_ h love and affection, lads,” he told both of them. They both snorted and rolled their eyes, exchanging a look that said a great deal about their active and practicing opinions on love, affection, and associated physical activities.

Gloin determined he must have a sit-down with Bofur and Nori as well. 

“I’m glad I didn’t have to do all this,” Kíli muttered to Bofur. “Finding the person for you has to be a pain.”

Bofur snorted. “It is. But worth it in the end.” His smile was, perhaps, a touch soppy.

Kíli shrugged. “Still seems like a better plan to have him there and available all along. And all of you say I’m too reckless and don’t plan well.” His expression was smugly pleased.

Finally, after having circled the large garden “a dozen times too many” (in Bofur’s sneezing baritone), Gloin began briskly making executive decisions.

“Yellow,” he said, pointing at a small sunny bloom, “like agate. Love and courage. Our Hobbit has both.” 

And then, while Kíli was scraping in the dirt in a fashion that was more ineffectual than anything else (“I haven’t done this since I made mud pies and talked Fíli into eating one when we were kids!”), he abruptly added, “Purple,” and Bofur dove for the cheerful purple bells he pointed out, “amethyst, strength and calm.”

Kíli cursed under his breath, but emerged with a double handful of dirt, roots, and a proud flower sticking up cheerfully from the grass. 

“…What is Beorn going to think about this?” Dwalin muttered as he held out scraps of leather for Ori’s needle.

“He’ll be fine when he sees we’ve given them to Bilbo.” Ori said, frowning down at the scraps as if their hodgepodge nature was a personal affront. “. . . Probably.”

Bofur carefully set his little pile of dirt at Ori’s feet next to Kíli’s as Gloin barked, “Red! Jasper! Understanding and sharing of difficult situations!” and Kíli scrambled to gather the flower in question.

“It looks like a caterpillar,” Kíli said, poking the strange plant.

Bifur offered a word of wisdom which Bofur translated as, “Caterpillars become butterflies. Which,” he added his own thought, “has to be good, right? Bifur says Hobbits like butterflies.”

Dwalin made a face. Bifur, a fellow appreciator of butterflies, sent him a dirty look. Dwalin raised his hands in surrender. “Future butterfly plant it is,” he said.

When Kíli set it in front of him, Ori said, “Looks a bit like the dangly bit on a rooster,” and Dwalin let out a bark of a laugh that made the scribe beam at him.

All in all, it was a very domestic group that gathered a few more flowers – a velvety pink one for rose quartz – the essence of love, a deep green sprig of evergreen for malachite – adventure and taking risks (“and it smells properly dwarvish,” Dwalin muttered, “can’t have it all flowers and petals”), all the Youngers working in harmony for a common cause.

Thorin would be proud.

If, of course, he knew.

Which clearly he wouldn’t and couldn’t.

“Aye,” Dwalin said, as Kíli’s clever fingers interwove all the roots in the bag Ori had made, “that’ll do. It looks like something hobbits would like.”

Gloin’s beard puffed out a bit along with his chest. “Of course. I told you I know what I’m doing.”

Kíli wrinkled his nose as he picked up the flower sling and dirt dripped over the edges. “If you say so.”

There was a determined glint in the oldest Younger’s eye as he said, “That. I. Do.”

No one dared argue with him.

\---

There was an additional issue to iron out, which they did in a whispered conference just before dinner. 

“Someone has to give them to him, and say they’re from Thorin,” Bofur insisted.

“Who?!” Gloin demanded. “If it’s Kíli, he’ll think it’s a joke, and if it’s Dwalin, well. Then he’ll be getting a bunch of soft plants from Dwalin. And that just doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Everyone nodded agreement at this, including Dwalin.

“We need someone more neutral,” Bofur agreed, “someone with a sweet face.”

Four pairs of eyes turned as one to settle on Ori. 

Ori looked back at them, and his face was, indeed, exceedingly sweet. But he said, “Bilbo’s not a fool, he’ll know something’s up. We should just leave them where he can find them.”

“With a note!” Kíli chirped. “Ori can write it!”

“Not Ori,” Dwalin said, raising his hands and crossing them in a “no way” gesture. “His handwriting’s wrong. It’s too pretty.”

There followed a brief handwriting analysis, overseen by Dwalin, who had the most experience with the king’s handwriting but terrible handwriting himself. Bofur’s argument that there was no reason to think Bilbo had ever seen Thorin’s handwriting – the contract had been drawn up by Balin – was thoroughly ignored because Kíli and Dwalin were snarling seriously at each other of the exact shape of Thorin’s letter B’s. 

“No, no, more like a little dog sitting up, less like a snowdwarf!” Kíli insisted, while Dwalin growled, “It does not have a TAIL!”

It was finally decided that Gloin had the closest handwriting, and as he’d seen Thorin’s on occasion while dealing with the books back in Erid Luin, he could fake it convincingly (“But,” Bofur tried yet again, “why does he have to when Bilbo’s never-” “No a tail like a little dog!”). Naturally the next argument concerned what the letter should say, with Gloin suggesting poetry, Ori quoting a love letter of Durin the Deathless, and Kíli curling up and seriously considering a nap. Finally, after much debate and a stop for tea prepared by Dori, and one never missed Dori’s tea for both the taste and the glaring dwarf who brewed it, they decided on 

_Thank you_   
_~Thorin_

“To the point,” Ori said.

“Suits his personality,” Dwalin agreed.

“Still, just a bit of poetry?” Gloin suggested.

“No!” Kíli said, snatching everything up. “I’m putting it by his bedroll!” and, taking matters into his own hands as only a (petulant) prince can, he stomped off for the bedrolls as Bofur scrambled to make sure Bilbo wasn’t anywhere nearby.

\-----

**Nori’s Notes**   
_Dinner interesting this evening_   
_A bit of the outdoors indoors_   
_Sunshine and roses on Younger side of table_   
_Stormclouds and doom on Elders’_   
_Expecting rain soon_   
_Hopefully sheep won’t get wet_   
_Damp wool; not pleasant_

\------

The Youngers, lined up on the left side of Beorn’s huge table, were on tenterhooks all through dinner, surreptitiously nudging each other with interest and excitement throughout the meal. The scowls and extensive eye-rolling of their Elder counterparts did imply, to some degree, that they were less sneaky than they imagined, but that didn’t dampen their spirits in the least. Nori and Bifur, sitting at the north end with Youngers on one side and Elders on the other, exchanged a few long-suffering looks. 

Thorin and Bilbo, the much-watched targets, appeared not to notice a thing. They were deep in talks with Beorn about the Mirkwood, which was apparently an exciting new name for the Greenwood, undoubtedly intended to keep out dwarves in need to food or assistance. 

“It’s going well,” Bofur murmured to Nori, leaning in rather more closely than strictly required to whisper effectively.

“He hasn’t even seen them yet,” Nori argued. “For all you know, he’s allergic and he’ll break out in hives.”

Bofur shook his head and tsked softly. “Always bringing coal where I see diamonds,” he sighed. Nori snorted. Bofur kissed him. Dori made a comment concerning propriety. Ori, carefully out of Beorn’s line of sight, hit Dori with a roll.

All in all, a nice dinner.

After dessert, which, it transpired, Bilbo had helped make, the Youngers suddenly felt a strong urge to go to bed early. They also felt a strong urge for _Bilbo_ to go to bed early, surrounding their Hobbit on both sides and ushering him off to the large room where all their bedrolls were neatly stored. Naturally, they all dispersed in their most nonchalant manner as soon as they tumbled through the door, leaving Bilbo to find the brilliant gift they had arranged for him. 

“What’s this?” Bilbo murmured, plucking up the sling, complete with dirt and flowers. “What in the Shire…?” He turned it in his hands, watching as a bit of dirt dribbled out from the top (Ori earning an elbow from Bofur for this, as the Youngers had put Ori in charge of the general packaging). “Flowers?” 

Kíli practically danced in place as the Elders appeared at the doorway, sneaking looks around the frame. 

Bilbo touched each flower in turn, murmuring under his breath as he did so: “Monkshood, foxglove, cockscomb,” here, Ori grinned at Dwalin, “petunia and Cyprus.” 

He stared at the bouquet for a long moment.

…..A very long moment.

It was a surprise to absolutely no one that the first dwarf to crack was Kíli.

“Maybe there’s a note!” he chirped, and a soft groan was heard from the doorway where the Elders were spying. 

“I should hope so!” Bilbo said crisply. “If you’re going to insult someone, you should do it to his _face_!”

There was a general gasp – of horror from the Youngers, of delight from the doorway. 

“Wh-what?!” Kíli asked, his voice rising to a register more suited to his brother. “But-”

Bilbo glared at the flowers as a becoming flush of pink started down from his broad ears. “No Hobbit would go around handing out _these_ flowers! Do you have any idea what they mean?!”

Gloin puffed up a bit. “Well, the, ah, yellow ones, of course, those-”

“Monkshood!” Bilbo plucked one of the cheerful little blooms and shook it angrily. “For hatred!”

Gloin deflated.

“Foxglove for insincerity!”

Kíli covered his face with one hand.

“Cockscomb! Cockscomb! For _silliness_! As if we’ve had time for THAT on this insane quest of yours!”

Beneath his mustache, Bofur paled a bit.

“And as if that wasn’t enough, whoever did this had the _effrontery_ to mix in cypress! For despair! I’ve had quite enough of that without someone shoving it in my face! Really! It’s completely uncalled for! As if I haven’t done my best! As if I didn’t fight off a warg for your king!” The pink was darkening to a mottled red now, and one small hand was pointing and shaking so agitatedly that both Ori and Dwalin took a step back. He glared down at the bouquet. “If there’s a note, someone is going to get a piece of my mind, and I hope they _choke_ on it!”

He reached for the note. 

Kíli, thinking fast, shoved Ori. 

Ori, eyes wide, fell forward-

-and rammed into their Hobbit.

The note and the bouquet both flew from Bilbo’s hands as the Hobbit and scribe went down in a tangle and Bofur, ever-clever, leapt over the rolling pair to pounce on the note. 

While Bilbo was disentangling himself from Ori’s scarf, Bofur quickly balled up the letter and shoved it under his hat before crossing his arms with an expression of triumph. 

“Thorin did it.”

The Youngers turned, eyes blazing, to the doorway.

The doorway filled with Elders.

Well.

The doorway filled with _one_ Elder, the others peeking around him.

Bombur, sweet, silent Bombur, gazed benignly upon them all. His eyes crinkled at the corners like a benevolent grandsire bestowing sweets. His neatly coiled beard practically invited a warm hug and a bit of head-patting. The entire effect was devastatingly handsome.

“It’s a gift,” he said, in a surprisingly soft voice for such a large and handsome dwarf, “from Thorin.”

And he smiled.


	18. It’s Always the Quiet Ones Who Commit Sudden and Inevitable Betrayal

The gasp of betrayal at this was such that Bilbo spun on one heel and narrowed his eyes dangerously at the assorted Youngers. 

“What,” he demanded, “is all this about?! Why is Thorin giving me,” he shook the velvety pink flower, “petunias for resentment?! After everything I’ve done!” He huffed. “I should go back home where I belong after all!”

The Youngers, utterly stymied, opened and closed their mouths like particularly startled fishes. For once, Kíli fit in perfectly. Before any of them could gather their well-scattered wits from the surrounding straw, Bombur’s sweet voice wafted over to them again like a calm summer breeze. You could practically see the Hobbit’s curls fluttering. 

“Oh no,” he assured Bilbo, crossing his hands on his great belly as his eyes narrowed into kindly slits of good humor. “Thorin’s not responsible for the message. He entrusted Bofur and Kíli to gather the flowers, since he’s still,” he lowered his voice to a respectful whisper, “a bit sore. He merely asked them to gather some for you, as thanks for your help at the trees.” His eyes now shut entirely as his smile deepened. “Kíli, you see, is the one who selected the message.”

Bilbo’s eyes flashed and his nose twitched dangerously in Kíli’s direction. _“Pardon,_ ” he said icily, “you.”

Kíli, his eyes widening with the memory of letter-openers and noses, lifted both hands in self-defense. “I didn’t –!”

“Oh,” came Oin’s booming voice as he peeked around Bombur, “but I saw you digging about in the dirt, along with Bofur.”

At this, even Bilbo’s ears looking outraged, and his mouth twisted in a decidedly infuriated manner. “Bofur?!”

“But Gloin-” Bofur started to argue, only to be cut off by Dori.

“They’ve always had a rather sharp and underdeveloped sense of humor,” Dori said woefully, as if he’d even properly known the two of them before setting out from Erid Luin. “It’s a shame, really, that they should practice it on you.”

“But we-!” Kíli tried-

“Kíli!” Fíli’s expression was borrowed from their mother and so eerily effective that Kíli’s mouth shut with a click. “I thought you considered Mr. Baggins a friend! I’m disappointed in you! And after,” he added, in a clear and obvious attempt to remind their Hobbit of past wrongs, “ _what you once did to his dinner._ ”

There was a general murmur of agreement among the Elders, accompanied by Very Disappointed Faces borrowed from various parents or, in the case of Dori, perfected as his own. 

The Youngers, quite against their wills, all deflated a bit, even Dwalin. Balin’s version of their dearly departed father Fundin’s Fiercely Unhappy face was such that even he didn’t immediately leap forward to call them on their false allegations. 

When Bilbo’s face fell, his little hands twisting in front of him and his largeish eyes shining with hurt feelings, Bofur (having the advantage of a younger brother making such a face at him, and therefore more able to resist), starting pushing his way forward. “Now listen here! This is all a misunderstanding-”

“Come, Bilbo,” Bombur soothed, sliding easily between the Hobbit and those dwarves who had so cruelly pranked him yet again. “We’ll get you some proper flowers for the king.” 

“Bombur!” Bofur growled in a fair approximation of their father, who was known for his ability to hold his own in even the most muscle-filled of bar brawls, but Dori and Fíli moved in on Bilbo’s sides, calming hands on his shoulders, and ushered him to the door.

“Really, Kíli’s just immature,” Fíli said, “and doesn’t think about things.”

“What’s Bofur’s excuse then?” Dori demanded. “To treat a friend like that! Is he brain damaged?”

“And sweet Ori in it as well,” Oin bellowed, as Bilbo said, “What I don’t understand is why they dug up all this dirt and put it in a sling.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then every Younger slowly and deliberately turned narrowed eyes on Bofur, son of Kefur. 

“You didn’t tell us Bombur could be like that!” Kíli cried, his voice gradually rising in register. “Now Bilbo hates us!”

Gloin nodded darkly. “And he’s not likely to listen to a word we say.”

“That three of us were closer to Bilbo than any of the Elders was an advantage we can’t afford to lose,” Ori agreed, his scowl fierce and calculating and not at all Ori-like, though Dwalin seemed to appreciate it, and Nori would not be at all surprised by it, were he present and not keeping an eye on Thorin at present.

“If you,” Dwalin snarled, “would be an Elder as you’re meant to be, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Bofur’s mustache bristled with indignation. “I have served this team honorably!” he snapped. “I’d like to see you pull of the serenading!”

“Which didn’t work!”

“It most certainly did! Nori said they spent _hours_ together!”

“Nori! Nori can’t be trusted anymore – he’s been compromised by you!”

“Now wait, don’t say my brother can’t be trusted-!”

A distinct racket grew in the sleeping quarters off Beorn’s hut as the Youngers turned on each other. 

\----

When Thorin arrived, tired and ready for sleep, Kíli and Ori were rolling around on the ground while Gloin, Bofur, and Dwalin snarled in each other’s faces. Bofur had procured a small box and was standing on it so he could more effectively lean directly into the large dwarf’s personal nose space, where he was making pointed observations concerning Dwalin’s personal hygiene. The king was undoubtedly taken aback by this behavior, since everyone had been getting along unusually well since the arrival at Beorn’s. It had almost been like travelling with an entire contingent of actual mature adults rather than a ragtag group of tweens.

He was, however, a king of dwarves, and so used to the volatile behavior of his people. Setting aside any personal surprise, he waded in, grabbing Kíli by the back of the pants and lifting him (a much easier prospect when he was a good six inches shorter), nudging a shocked Ori out of the way with one heavy boot, and calling upon his childhood training (how many times had his father instructed him to _breath from the diaphragm, son_?), to order, “You will stop acting like dwarflings!”

The three eldest Youngers jumped and looked at their king sheepishly. Bofur’s landing from his start of surprise sent him toppling off his box, landing in the straw with a soft but creative curse concerning the hair of Men which grows in private places.

“This behavior,” Thorin informed them stiffly, “will cease. You will behave as adults and go to bed, because we are leaving at dawn’s light.”

And he dropped a puppy-faced Kíli right onto his bedroll.

The Youngers dispersed obediently, if not cheerfully, judging from the angry looks they were shooting each other as they pointedly rearranged their bedrolls amongst the Elders’ things. Even Ori and Dwalin separated themselves, placing their bedrolls pointedly on either side of Balin’s, while Ori protected his other flank expertly with Dori’s bedroll (and therefore, eventually, Dori). Should Dwalin wish to make apologies in the night, Dori would have none of it. 

This had the ultimate result of the Elders looking slightly confused when they returned, Bilbo in tow, to find that everyone was now squeezed into half the sleeping area available, save Thorin.

“Don’t ask,” Thorin said to a perplexed Balin (apparently missing the very pleased expressions at this clear sign of inter-Younger discord among Elders with less acting abilities). 

“Aye,” Balin agreed, and went to shove his sleeping brother over a bit before settling in.

Bilbo entered last, holding a small bouquet of flowers with no roots or dirt at all (“Well that’s just stupid,” Kíli muttered sulkily into his pillow, set between Bombur’s and Bifur’s), a little smile on his face. He crossed to his bedroll, tucked in the warmest and most comfortable place by the fire at Beorn’s insistence, and set his flowers by the pillow the shapechanger had provided (filled, as it was, with bear fur). “Thank you,” he said to Thorin, his voice pleased and sincere and utterly charming.

There was a collective sucking in of breath.

And one snort.

\---

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _None of these morons thought Hobbit would be polite_  
 _Hobbit is always polite_  
 _Idiots_  
 _Also, going to cut off half Bofur’s mustache if he doesn’t get off my blanket._

\----

Thorin glanced over at him. 

A couple of foolish Elders (Oin and Dori, specifically) held on to a few precious nanoseconds of hope at this juncture. The proper thing to do would be to say, “You’re welcome,” thereby taking credit for whatever you were being thanked for. It didn’t matter _why_ someone was thanking you, only that they _were_ , and well, anyone would appreciate having another person’s appreciation and the bit of power shift that provided, certainly. Especially someone who was just the tiniest touch arrogant and the littlest dash power-hungry, like their beloved king.

But no. 

This was Thorin, who was always honest.

Brutally honest.

And so he answered:

“I have no idea why you’re thanking me.”

And his expression was caught between grumpy and bewildered.

Balin made a soft groaning sound as Dori, now stuck between Ori and Bombur, reached well over to give him a commiserating pat on the back.

Bilbo’s smile didn’t waver. He only reached over –

And patted Thorin’s hand.

Then he flicked out his bedroll and curled up in bed, humming happily to himself.

The Elders exchanged matching looks of serene pleasure clearly appropriated from their very pleased Bombur.

\----

The dwarves left Beorn’s house (after Beorn bestowed upon their Hobbit one last massive hug, which effectively squashed the wilted remains of his self-made bouquet) with the first light of dawn the next morning.

Within only a few days, they stood at the edge of the Mirkwood.

And _elves._


	19. Musty Murkiness of the Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mirkwood is not-so lovely, but dark and deep. Bifur's has feelings. Nori has complaints. And then-

**Bifur’s List of Things I Hate About the Mirkwood**  
1\. It’s dark  
2\. It smells bad  
3\. Like old musty mustiness  
4\. There are elves in here somewhere  
5\. Can feel their beady eyes in the trees  
6\. Path is hard to follow  
7\. More of a track really  
8\. This giant chasm  
9\. Getting bumped into constantly  
10\. Random fistfights are slow and boring

The Mirkwood was as horrible as everyone had suspected it would be.

It stank of decaying woodland things, and there was a permanent fog. Also, it appeared to have a mental effect not unlike that which had overtaken the mountain when some Men sold a crate of extremely aromatic pipeweed to Gloin’s wife, who then sold it to over two dozen dwarves in an hour, who had all begun smoking it without realizing that it had rather odd side effects. There had been quite a few dwarves singing in the hallways and talking to the statues on that day.

There were those among their number who swore that Gandalf’s special pipeweed was of a very similar make, predominantly the besotted princes, who had sampled some shortly before being put in charge of the ponies, and Nori, who had sampled a good bit after stealing it here and there. The major difference was this: while Gandalf’s pipeweed made the smoker (or secondary inhaler) quite mellow, the fog of Mirkwood made them quite tetchy. 

This was especially bad among the youngers, already snarling at each other on the way in.

At one point, Ori actually tried to start a fistfight with Kíli, infuriating a suddenly-overprotective Fíli, which incensed a definitely-in-love Dwalin, and they had to stop for a lunch of green things provided by Beorn while the four way fight worked itself out. Since the combatants were moving in something approaching slow motion, this took several minutes. Ori finally reigned victorious by slithering up Dwalin’s back and jumping off his shoulders, landing on the princes, falling in a heap, and promptly falling asleep like a pile of dusty, oversized, snoring kittens. 

It is a testament to the murky nature of the Mirkwood’s air that not a single dwarf placed a bet during the entire fracas.  
\-----  
11\. The water sucks your memory away  
12\. Very inconvenient, Bombur rather heavy  
13\. AND OF COURSE I HAVE TO CARRY HIM  
14\. Oh just walked into a tree  
15\. ….I think  
\------

Then there was the accidental dunking of Bombur, who later had to be informed of everything he had forgotten. It was during this time that some of the Youngers, still snarling at each other, attempted to convince him that he was on their side.

“It’s been a long quest,” Kíli told him in a whisper, keeping an eye on Bofur, who was ahead wandering hand in hand with a very drunk-looking Nori, “mostly owing to the Elders.” 

At Bombur’s sleepy-eyed confusion, Ori explained, “All the elder brothers banded together and perpetrated a series of pranks against us.” His eyes were sad, if a bit unfocused thanks to the Mirkwood’s general air of bad-pipeweedness. 

“They purposefully cut in on our sleeping time,” Gloin muttered.

“They made us fall off the ponies with a chance of injury,” Ori added.

“They,” Dwalin growled as he squatted beside them, “tied our _hair_ together.”

At this, Bombur looked appropriately shocked and horrified, and his hands wrapped protectively around his own fantastic beard.

“And now we have to defend ourselves and our honor in a mission to join Thorin with Bilbo,” Kíli hissed. “So if you’d just-”

“I don’t think so, laddies,” Oin boomed, and a concentrated effort of Oin, Balin, and Fíli relocated the perplexed Ur to their side of camp. 

Dwalin wrapped an arm around Ori’s pouting shoulders while Bofur shot them all a suspicious look.

Kíli smiled and waved at him.

\-------

16\. There aren’t any animals  
17\. If memory serves  
18\. Animals should like forests  
19\. Rabbits and butterflies and deer nowhere to be found  
20\. Oh wait here are some ani-  
\-----  
 **Nori’s Notes**  
 _Mahal’s_  
 _Rock splitting_  
 _Testicles._  
 _I really_  
 _Hate_  
 _Spiders_  
\-----  
21\. Giant spiders  
22\. Giant spider webs  
\---  
 _Saved by Hobbit._  
 _Becoming a habit_  
 _ ~~A heroic habit of Hobbits?~~_  
 _Web sticks absolutely everywhere_  
 _Always annoying to be arrested with bad hair._  
\-----  
23\. Blond elves  
24\. Red-headed elves  
25\. Big elven tree houses  
26\. Elves with bows  
27\. Elves with swords  
28\. Elves with frisky hands  
29\. Elves who don’t taste good when you bite their frisky hands  
30\. Elf kings  
31\. Dungeons  
32\. Not being invited to the party  
33\. Very rude  
34\. Feelings hurt

\-----

The Rivendell elves had been annoying, with their stomping horses and long noses and indeterminate genders, but at least they didn’t snatch people up who were just wandering about in their forest being lost and hungry and bung them into dungeons. They didn’t even have the good grace to place the couples appropriately, and the princes especially were so pitiful about this that the others couldn’t even get annoyed over their constant checking up on each other. 

Then a party started, quite loudly, and they could smell food and hear music and what sounded distinctly like drunk elves. And that was just incredibly rude. 

No proper dwarf would throw a celebration within hearing of someone locked away in their dungeons, as Nori could attest. 

“You can get a proper night’s sleep in the holding cells of Erid Luin,” he grumped, much to Dwalin’s approval.

But the worst, the absolute worst part:

They had misplaced their Hobbit.

“Again,” Bofur said sadly, and there were soft grumbles of agreement. 

Their Hobbit.

So small, so kind. Patting their king’s hand. Making dinner. Worrying over their safety. Forgiving them their stupidity. Being more clever and slightly evil than any of them had originally suspected.

Lost in the woods.

Alone. 

After saving all their lives.

….Again.

A gentle tear fell down several dwarf cheeks (even, Fíli hissed to his nearest neighbor, Thorin’s, he was sure of it, there had been a sort of sniffling noise) as they thought of their brave Hobbit. 

All thoughts of Youngers and Elders was lost as Ori sighed, “We’re never going to reach the mountain, are we?”

And then.

Their Hobbit!

-Rushing to their king and saving Thorin first and pausing, yes, for that one beautiful moment as their eyes met, and twelve lungs sucked in anticipatory air, as-!

-he went to open Balin’s door.

“Well, bollocks,” Ori muttered, before leaping out to kiss his Dwalin for all the world to see.

Dori let it slide, just this once.

\----

35\. Barrels  
36\. Rivers  
37\. Orcs  
38\. Elves  
39\. Everything else

\------

The assembled dwarves gave off the sense of a majestic school of fish, flopping out of their barrels onto dry(ish) land. They were tired and grumpy, Fíli was nauseated, Dwalin was bruised, and Bofur’s hat was tragically dripping all over the place. But they were alive, and together, and they had their Hobbit. 

The first to rise from the bank was Thorin, looking fierce and strong even stripped of his armor and with his thick hair slick and dripping down his back. As Fíli inched over to Kíli and Bofur tossed his hat at Nori to make sure the latter was alive (he was, vociferously), Thorin crossed the rocky shore to Bilbo, laying on his back and looking utterly exhausted.

“Master Burglar,” he said, and Bilbo blinked water from his lashes.

“Thorin,” he panted.

Thorin leaned down and took the Hobbit by the forearms, lifting him tenderly to his feet.

Twelve dwarves became instantly as still as statues. Ori froze with one foot in mid-air, which he had been tiredly attempting to free from its boot.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said this time, and Bilbo’s hands rose slowly to rest on Thorin’s upper arms, as the Hobbit was unsteady on his feet after his barrel-less ride. 

Bilbo looked up at him.

Dwarves grabbed their nearest neighbor and rolled to sit, elbowing to be in the best spots to watch everything that was happening. Bofur and Bombur used each other as backrests; Dori and Nori gripped hands like dwarflings at the fair. 

Bilbo’s lashes (Nori later insisted) fluttered lightly, and he smiled. “Thorin,” he said again, and yes. Yes! He pushed up on his toes, just a bit.

(Ori and Fíli, well acquainted with this move from personal experience, both gave little gasps they later denied.)

Thorin leaned down (Kili grabbed Balin’s arm), and rumbled, “You saved us all.”

And then-

-he gently _dipped_ their Hobbit-

And kissed him.

Full on the mouth.

An acorn dropped from a nearby tree like the crack of a falling limb.

\-----

“That counts!” Kíli yelped.

Fíli smacked him.

But Nori agreed.

\----

_That counts._

\-----

Thorin froze.

Bilbo froze.

“What counts?” Thorin asked, and his voice was a rumble of pure fury.

Kíli squeaked. 

“Nothing,” Fíli assured him hurriedly. “He took a barrel to the head!”

“Oh no,” Bilbo this time, his eyes narrowing beneath dark, soaked curls. “It’s something.”

Kíli’s panicked eyes flickered to Nori. Nori glared back at him, resting a hand over his chest, where he had tucked away his notebook after each council meeting.

The evidence was still there!

“It. It counts as. As. As-” Kíli stuttered, but he couldn't think of anything, it was too late anyway.

Now Thorin was looking at Nori. 

Nori looked right back at him. 

“What are you hiding in your shirt?” Thorin asked, and his tone was so reasonable that it sent terror down every dwarf spine in the vicinity. A reasonable Thorin was a truly, truly terrifying Thorin. 

Nori was not a fool. He hadn’t survived and done well in his chosen profession without knowing when it was time to just bow out and empty his pockets. He reached into his shirt, pulling out the small notebook, neatly wrapped in its waterproof packet. “Records of the bets that have been laid during the Quest.”

“Concerning?” Thorin did not cross his arms, because one was still firmly around their Hobbit, who was now glaring upon them all with a Disappointed Face that put each and every one of their mothers to shame.

The Elders squirmed. The Youngers looked down. Bifur did a handstand to get the water out of his ears. But Nori, brave Nori, did not budge.

“On when and how the two of you would kiss,” he answered, his voice carefully bland. 

Bilbo gasped. Thorin growled. Nori straightened his shoulders. Having been the target of romantically-inclined bets himself, he would not back down now.

“And who,” Thorin asked silkily (scarier still, and several wise dwarves attempted to shuffle silently backwards), “won?”

Nori looked nonplussed. “Well. No one. I suppose. We weren’t in the middle of a round just now.”

There was a disappointed general grumble at this, which died immediately with one dark look from their king.

Thorin held his hand out. “Let me have it.”

Nori strode forward and slapped the notebook into Thorin’s palm. If he perhaps scuttled back rather quickly, no one would call him on it, even years later. 

Thorin released Bilbo to slide the notebook free. The edges were damp, but it opened easily enough. Thorin flipped through the pages, filled with Nori’s neat script, until he came to the last one. Then he tilted it for Bilbo to see.

Bilbo made a soft tsking noise. “It looks to me,” he said, his voice soft and hurt, “that someone has won.”

Nori frowned. “What?”

Thorin held it out. “As you will see, Nori.”

Nori’s eyes narrowed. He slid his feet forward, weight on the balls and toes for easy escape, and politely snatched the notebook away. His green eyes traced the letters, growing progressively larger until he looked, for all the world, like Kíli at his most confused. “But-”

Thorin smiled.

Bilbo smiled.

They _both_ smiled.

And Nori read slowly aloud:

_Team: Targets (Thorin, son of Thrain, and Bilbo Baggins)_  
 _Location, Time: After the ~~cursed elves~~ Mirkwood_  
 _Plan: Bilbo saves the dwarves from ~~obnoxious, pointy-eared, flowery, evil~~ , inhospitable elves_


	20. The Parlor Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed. Someone gets kissed. A hand is patted. And our story draws to a close.

“How did you do this?!” Nori demanded, turning his book toward them and pointed jaggedly at the page.

The handwriting was most definitely not his own. It had the spikey, sharp style of a dwarf properly reared in Erebor – it reminded him of Dori’s handwriting, though more forceful and less pointedly my-handwriting-is-better-than-yours-you-could-never-dream-of-reaching-my-level elegant. 

It was Dwalin’s low growl of recognition that revealed the culprit.

“I’d know your penmanship anywhere,” he snarled, pointing a handy stick at his friend and king like a club. “Balin made me copy it for two years solid!” 

“And yet,” Thorin said with something that might have been a smile in a less grumpy dwarf, “it’s still much better than yours.”

“This is _mine_!” Nori cut in. “You shouldn’t mess about with things that aren’t yours!”

For a moment, there was silence.

Every dwarf spared at least one eyeball to stare at their resident (reformed) thief, who continued to glare at the king and hobbit in not-so-very-righteous indignation. It had been a truly fascinating and educational experience to watch Nori being stripped down by the elves, even moreso than Fíli’s knife collection (the one in his _hair_ ) or Bifur’s biting tendencies, because it had been more . . . personal to each dwarf as he watched small items that had once been on _his_ personal person being stripped off _Nori’s._

“ _Nori,_ ” Ori hissed.

“What?!”

“ _Shut up_ ,” this was said, in a rare chorus of Younger-Elder solidarity, by both of Nori’s put-upon siblings at once.

“But-”

“The _issue_ here,” Balin insisted, “is how exactly this bet was placed and how you knew that there were bets at all!”

Thorin and Bilbo were still standing quite close. Kíli elbowed his brother and motioned rather obviously to where their arms were around each other; Fíli, still nauseated, decided that looked like a good plan and tried it himself. Thorin glanced down at Bilbo, whose mouth curved into a small, rather sassy smile. “It was actually quite-“

It was at this point that a Man popped up and started shooting at them.

So.

A delay.

\-----

The dwarves huddled together in the Man’s boat – his name was Bard, though it clearly should have been Barge, but Men have no sense in names or anything else – and caught their king and hobbit with beady eyes. 

“The bets,” Gloin said.

“Nori’s book,” Balin insisted.

“The _elves_!” Oin bellowed, only to be collectively shushed. 

Thorin opened his mouth to answer, but Bilbo raised one hand and the king-

-didn’t-

-talk.

Instead, he looked curiously at their Hobbit with nary a sign of fussing at being cut off.

There was practically a creak as the collective jaws dropped. 

“I believe,” Bilbo murmured, his sharp eyes occasionally flicking toward the Man, “that we are owed a fair amount of money first.”

“The elves took it all,” said Gloin, but his eyes slide notably to the side, and Oin elbowed him. There was much grumbling, and a threat from Oin and Dori to take it involuntarily by hanging him upside down and beating on his hindquarters until the money fell out, but Gloin did finally hand it over. “Fine! Take it! Take all of it! But just _explain_ -”

Bard Barge the Bowman had an excellent sense of timing, for he interrupted Gloin with a bizarre demand that they relocate to the thrice-cursed barrels again. The only one who didn’t complain about this was Fíli, who made a beeline for a barrel that smelled of wine, and not at all of apples, though he kicked Kíli when his brother tried to squeeze in with him.

Within minutes, they were all in barrels.

Within a few more:

Fish.

\----

And then there was the toilet . . . 

. . . but all parties, Youngers, Elders, Neutrals, and Targets, agreed never to speak of that again.

\----

It was a warm and moderately clean and less fishy Company that met, at last, in Bard’s parlor, and demanded an explanation concerning (as itemized by Bifur):  
1\. How the Targets learned of the betting  
2\. When the Targets learned of the betting  
3\. How the Targets added a bet to Nori’s book  
4\. How the Targets knew about the elves  
5\. Did the targets prefer Bagginshield or Thilbo  
6\. Did the targets agree that Oakenbags was an unacceptable name  
(This final two being personal additions of Bifur’s that caused Bofur a bit of confusion as he read out the translation).

“Oakenbags?” Thorin asked, and his expression clearly stated that yes, that was a horrible name, but he didn’t look terribly pleased with the other two, either.

It was Balin, practical as always, who said, “Don’t get distracted! Stay with the topic at hand before this Bard comes back in here and demands we all climb in a box so he can _ship_ us to Erebor!”

There was a chorus of “Ayes!” and “about times!” and one “bow-carting bastard” in response to this (and a “Nothing wrong with carrying a _bow_!” somewhat wailed in response to _that_ ), so Thorin straightened his shoulders, tucked his hands behind his back, and gazed over his collected Company with all the majesty at his disposal. His voice was a low and rich as he said:

“Essentially, there is one salient point: you are all idiots.”

\-----

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Simultaneously offended and resigned_  
 _He’s right_  
 _At least about the rest of them,_  
 _and yes, including the One with the Hat_  
 _Though Bofur shows excellent taste for an idiot_

\-----

“That’s uncalled for!” Dwalin growled in his fiercest voice, which wasn’t unlike something an orc might dig up. 

Thorin, who had once seen a teenage Dwalin running around naked except for a pair of boots and a by-then very empty mug of ale, was unmoved by this assertion. “It’s only a fact.”

Bilbo reached out and touched the back of the king’s hand. Their Hobbit was curled up in one of the Man’s chairs, wearing a borrowed shirt and wrapped up in a warm, dry towel, making him even smaller and cuter than normal. “Maybe not idiots,” he allowed, “but perhaps less subtle than you think you are.”

Nori snorted and mumbled something to the contrary, but Bofur elbowed him into silence. “You never let on,” the miner said, looking a bit hurt at his friend. 

Bilbo met his gaze, his eyes warm but his mouth mischievous. “You wouldn’t have learned anything if I’d told you. A good teacher has you figure some details out for yourself.” 

Oin rubbed his knuckles protectively and grumbled something about overzealous tutors with rulers.

“Then _when_?” Kíli demanded.

“Whenever it was,” Dori said sourly, “you can be sure it was you or your brother who gave it away.”

Kíli glared at him. Dori, as well-versed in being glared at as any proper mother, ignored him.

“You were obviously up to something from the beginning,” Thorin said, turning a stink-eye on his nephew. “Dwarves do not make peace so easily. The average lifespan of a treaty between dwarf families is six days. So of course when you all realized that your great prank war was too dangerous with Bilbo involved,” the stink eye melted into something almost like softness as he glanced at their Hobbit, “I knew you had to be up to _something._ ”

“But we weren’t certain what until after the Carrock, when you all started whispering and looking back over your shoulders.”

“Ha!” Fíli cried, “We were with Thorin! So it wasn’t us!” 

Kíli looked smug and leaned back against Fíli’s legs. 

“Thorin was a bit distracted at the time,” Bilbo continued, “but I noticed that all the stares were going between the two of us.”

The Youngers glared accusingly at their Elders. The Elders scowled back at the Youngers. Accusation sizzled in the air between them.

“And then,” Thorin continued, “Bofur started singing. Constantly.” Bofur grinned. “But only love ballads, not a single song of the Maker or gold or a proper quest. I didn’t know dwarves had that many love songs.” Bofur’s grin faltered. “And I’m fairly certain he made up four verses of ‘The Courtship of Feya.’” 

Bofur blushed and sputtered, “It’s a Blue Mountain variation!”

“When we saw that Nori was constantly spying on us,” Bilbo took up the thread again, “we started to wonder-”

“And then,” here Thorin’s voice dipped into a growl that made every dwarf suddenly adopt incredibly straight posture, “you knocked Bilbo in the _river_.”

“He said _Bilbo,_ ” Kili breathed as all the Elders suddenly became fascinated by the rickety ceiling above their heads. Balin cleared his throat. Dori’s nose turned pink. Oin “forgot” to raise his ear trumpet. Bombur serenely counted the wooden slats in the far wall. Even their prince, who hadn't be directly involved, looked shifty-eyed.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

And five Elders said, in unison, “I’m sorry.”

“And right you should be,” Bilbo muttered.

“Though it was really more a _stream_ ,” Oin said it what he probably thought was an under-the-breath mutter and not a resounding crack of irritation. 

Bilbo shot him a dangerous look, but kept on talking. “However, if you hadn’t all been so determined to kill me and cover yourselves with boils,” a hiccup from Ori here, “Thorin wouldn’t have been left alone with the bags for so long.”

Bifur’s eyes widened and his elbow sank into Bombur’s ribcage as he barked something in Khuzdul. Bofur thunked the heel of his palm against his forehead and said, “When Nori was in the bath!”

“When Fíli and I were outside?” Kíli asked.

“While Bombur and Bifur were looking for Thorin . . .” Ori said thoughtfully.

“Dori and Oin were squabbling over the other tub,” Gloin smirked, “and Bofur was ‘helping’ Nori while Dwalin and Ori sneaked off to 'hold hands,'" he said this in a way that implied hands in entirely different areas, "in the bushes.”

Dwalin and Ori shot him matching dirty looks as Dori and Nori turned slow, dangerous glances in the direction of their king’s best friend.

“'Hold hands'?” Dori growled as Nori snarled, “Is _that_ what you’re calling it now? And I after I didn’t tell Dori about the _three_ times I saw your hand on Ori’s backside!”

“On his _what_?!” Dori barked, and there was a ten minute intermission for assaults against Dwalin’s person, which came to an end only when Ori grabbed Nori’s most sensitive braid and _pulled_ while simultaneously jabbing three fingers into the most ticklish of Dori’s ribs.

This move was later lauded by the Youngers as one of the most beautiful things they had ever witnessed. Really, the speed of his wrists had been absolutely awe-inspiring.

“When I came in from the bath, I found Thorin with Nori’s book,” Bilbo said once the dust had settled and Dori’s utterly disturbing gigglefit had died down.

“It fell out of his bag,” Thorin added in an utterly unconvincing monotone.

“-and so we discussed what to do.”

“I pointed out that we would soon be seeing elves. Bilbo attempted to convince me they would be,” his face twisted in disgust, “ _friendly._ ”

The dwarves scoffed vociferously at this. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“When he didn’t believe me, we made a little wager. I said that they would try to capture us, he said they wouldn’t. So . . .” Thorin motioned toward Nori.

“You _stole_ ,” Nori said, “my book!”

“Just a souvenir,” Dwalin murmured. Ori kicked him. 

“We secret-borrowed it,” Bilbo demurred, but his hands flickered with obvious amusement.

Nori harrumphed.

“We didn’t read anything other than the bets.”

Nori harumped again.

Bilbo’s nose twitched. “And maybe that bit about how Bofur doesn’t have any faults.”

Nori’s eyes went wide as Bofur crowed approval and pounced on him, yodeling, “I knew iiiiiiit!” as he pressed three rather musical kisses to the horrified face.

Thorin gave Bilbo an approving nod, which Bilbo graciously returned.

“Wait,” Fíli said, his fair brows drawing together thoughtfully. “That means that . . . we all made wagers which failed . . .”

“Of course, because all your plans were ridiculous,” Thorin said evenly, and Bilbo _tsk_ ed with obvious disappointment at the memory of their various plans and schemes. 

Fíli went on: “. . . so you added a wager that the elves would capture us . . .”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Thorin said, shooting a smug look at their Hobbit. “Be _nice_ ,” he scoffed.

“ . . . and Bilbo would somehow save us?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know he would save us?”

Thorin crossed his arms and looked down the delicate, Man-like point of his nose. “Have you,” he asked seriously, “ _met_ Master Baggins?”

And he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the waiting Hobbit's smiling lips.

The Youngers looked at the Elders. The Elders nodded to the Youngers.

There was really no arguing with that.

\----

And so, the second Battles of the Brothers drew to a relatively peaceful close. 

There were a few minor snafus to overcome in the wake of the battles: a dragon, some Elves, some Men, a lot of Orcs, a mind-altering stone, and such things as that, but really. How minor these issues are without the sort of complicated backgrounds and contradictory feelings brought on by proper sibling rivalry. No dragon would know exactly what phrase pisses a dwarf off fastest; no Man could hope to locate every ticklish spot in moments; no Elf knows every pet name a dwarf’s grandmother called him as a child; no Orc was aware of exactly how long a dwarf wet the bed as a small dwarfling; no stone knows about a dwarf’s secret first crush on his matronly primary teacher.

No.

Compared to siblings, other races and occasional dragons were easy obstacles.

With Erebor reclaimed and a truce called among the factions, peace reigned for almost three weeks after the crowning of Thorin, King Under the Mountain.

That is until it occurred to the Company that not one, but _two_ royal weddings now needed to be planned.

. . . And naturally, the Elders, with their knowledge of beauty, craft, and tradition, would plan a much better wedding than their foolish Younger counterparts.

“You wouldn’t plan a wedding! You’d plan a _giant group nap_!”

“And you’d plan a _drunken orgy_!”

“The princes don’t want their guests going into _comas_ from _boredom_ because you might _pop a hip_!”

“And I assure you that the king would not have any interest in a wild, disorganized celebration planned by a group of dwarves with a collective mental age of _sixty_!”

"We'll just see about that!"

\-----

**Nori’s Notes**  
 _Meeting with Bifur in ten minutes_  
 _Chaining my book to my wrist this time_  
 _Bofur suggests I hide it inside a hat_  
 _Will. Not. Happen._  


\---

1\. Battle of the Hips  
2\. Young Hips vs. Old Hips?  
3\. ~~would that make me an old hip~~  
4\. Thilbo vs. Fiki  
5\. Bagginshield vs. Incestuous Durins  
6\. Durincest?  
7\. Wedding vs. Wedding  
8\. ~~Weeping Weddings~~  
9\. Quadruple bridegrooms  
10\. Masculine Matrimonies  
11\. Dueling Weddings  
12\. BATTLE OF THE DUELING WEDDINGS  
13\. Yes  
14\. I like that one  
15\. Should get it on a shirt  
16\. Dori might embroider it for me  
17\. Perhaps with butterfly motif?  
18\. Will ask

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


End file.
